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BROWN'S   Retreat 


AND   OTHER   STORIES 


BY 

ANNA   EICHBERG   KING    /<»OC 


H 


BOSTON 
ROBERTS  BROTHERS 

1893 


U  j    0  X 


Copyright,  1S93, 
By  Roberts  Brothers. 


Si 


John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.S.A. 


5^/ 


I    DEDICATE    THESE    STORIES 
h^/TN  GRATEFUL  LOVE. 


Within  her  home,  like  some  rare  jewel  set, 
The  lustre  of  her  beauty  lives  and  glows 

With  all  the  fragrance  of  the  violet. 

And  all  the  radiant  splendor  of  the  rose. 

Celia  Thaxter. 


%. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 
BROWN'S  RETREAT,  ....  .5 

ODELIA  BLYNN, 22 

THE  HEART  STORY  OF  MISS  JACK,  .  .      45 

"FATHER," 65 

THE  STORY  OF  AGEE  SANG  LONG,  .      95 

JOHN  STERLING'S  COURTSHIP,         .        .  112 

THE  PROFESSOR  OF  DOLLINGEN,       .        .  132 

A  TRIFLE  OF  INFORMATION 154 

MR.  CARMICHAEL'S  CONVERSION,      ...     188 

JACINTH 200 

A  FREAK  OF  FATE, 221 

MONSIEUR  PAMPALON'S  REPENTANCE,        .        247 

A  LEGEND  OF  OLD  NEW  YORK,  .        .        .        .276 


BROWN'S  RETREAT. 


I. 


BROWN'S  RETREAT  flashed  upon  them  all  of  a 
sudden. 

The  neighborhood  went  to  sleep,  one  night,  guile- 
less and  innocent, — that  is,  theoretically  guileless  and 
innocent, — and  awoke  in  the  morning  to  the  con- 
sciousness that  Brown's  Retreat  was  in  its  midst. 

There  was  considerable  mystery  and  confusion  at- 
tending the  want  of  knowledge  whether  Brown's  Re- 
treat meant  that  Brown  had  retreated,  or  if  it  was  a 
general  invitation  into  the  "retreat,"  or  if  Brown  was 
a  practical  joker  and  Brown's  Retreat  merely  a  gentle 
stimulant  to  that  weakness. 

Edgerly  was  a  prosperous  town,  with  a  harbor,  an 
East  India  trade,  and  a  charming  collection  of  water- 
side characters.  It  had  also  a  state-prison  that  was 
kept  on  the  most  desirable  plan,  where  five  hundred 
gentlemen  were  lodged  who  had  differences  with  their 
country's  laws.  Once  in  a  while,  curiously  enough, 
one  of  these  gentlemen  would  escape.  There  were 
other  worthy  institutions  in  Edgerly,  of  which  it  is, 
however,  unnecessary  to  speak. 

Edgerly  itself  was  built  on  some  three  or  four  hills, 
so  that  the  narrow,  zigzag  streets  were  not  only  nar- 
row and  zigzag,  but  they  had  quite  an  abrupt  slope, 
and  some  of  them,  had  they  been  built  as  surveyors 
intend,  would  have  led  you,  running  at  a  smart  pace, 
down  into  the  very  depths  of   the  dubious-looking 

(S) 


O  BROWN'S   RETREAT. 

black  water  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  where,  at  the 
weather-beaten  wharves,  with  their  perfume  of  bilge- 
water,  some  rusty-looking  schooner  would  be  lying  at 
anchor,  displaying  on  its  bare  spars  a  varied  collection 
of  trousers  and  under-garments  hung  out  to  dry,  be- 
sides affording  a  glimpse  of  a  decidedly  untidy  nau- 
tical character,  mopping  the  unsavory  deck. 

Brown's  Retreat  was  nearly  at  the  foot  of  Edgerly's 
down-hill  street.  At  a  rough  guess  it  was  six  feet  by 
ten,  and  occupied  one  half  of  the  ground  floor  of 
No.  7,  a  wooden  house  with  depressed-looking  win- 
dows, at  each  of  which  appeared  a  vision  of  some- 
body's baby  and  some  baby's  mother,  all  looking 
very  frouzy  and  much  in  want  of  soap  and  water  and 
fresh  air. 

It  left  lookers-on  no  doubt  of  its  character,  as  it 
boldly  proclaimed  itself  "  Brown's  Retreat "  on  a  deal- 
board,  painted  in  lamp-black  by  one  whose  right  hand 
had  lost  its  cunning,  for  the  letters  resembled  Edg- 
erly  streets,  being  narrow  and  zigzag  in  the  extreme. 
Nevertheless,  they  stared  into  the  world  over  the 
small,  dingy  show-window,  which  revealed  as  a  solid 
foundation,  two  quarts  of  dismal  apples,  surmounted 
by  several  rows  of  sticky  pop-corn  balls,  a  collection 
of  combs  and  seed-cakes,  a  few  paper  dolls,  a  sprink- 
ling of  dead  flies,  clay-pipes,  and  shoe-strings. 

Sometimes  a  child's  face  would  peer  out  eagerly 
from  among  these  treasures ;  a  child's  face,  yet 
strangely  unchild-like,  with  shrewd  gray  eyes  watch- 
ing stealthily, — a  poor  little  body  shivering  in  a 
doubtful  calico  dress,  with  an  attempt  at  finery,  in  a 
string  with  three  glass  beads  about  her  wretched  lit- 
tle neck. 

The  child  was  small,  the  shop  was  small,  and  the 
counter  was  very  small.  The  selection  of  wares  was 
modest,  and  the  greater  part  graced  the  window. 

When  the  sign,  "Brown's  Retreat,"  appeared  over 


BROWN'S   RETREAT.  7 

that  witidow  the  neighborhood  stared.  Whether  the 
invisible  Brown  grinned  is  unknown ;  but  true  it  is 
that  the  mysterious  child  kept  the  little  shop  with 
much  solemnity.  Once  in  a  while,  when  the  shop 
was  empty, — which.  Heaven  knows,  was  most  of  the 
time,  for  neither  money  nor  trade  was  very  brisk  in 
that  part  of  Edgerly  town, — a  cautious  voice  would 
whisper,"  Coast  clear,  Popsy?" 

The  mysterious  child  would  reconnoitre  stealthily, 
and  then  whisper  back  through  the  key-hole  of  a 
small  door  in  the  back  of  the  shop,  half  lost  in  the 
gloom  of  the  place,  "  Yes,  Nunc  !  "  Then  out  would 
come  a  man's  head  with  tumbled,  brown  hair,  an  un- 
shaven face,  and  undecided  blue  eyes,  that  had,  how- 
ever, little  redeeming  wrinkles  at  the  corners,  as  if 
the  man  could  laugh  at  a  joke. 

If  Popsy  whispered  warningly,  "  Shoo,  —  shoo. 
Nunc ! "  there  came  back  a  muffled  "  All  right, 
Popsy ! "  By  which  you  will  see  that  not  only  was 
there  a  Brown's  Retreat,  but  there  was  even  a  re- 
treat to  that. 

It  was  on  a  late  November  day  that  Brown's  Re- 
treat appeared  before  an  astonished  world  ;  a  raw 
day,  when  the  inky  waves  with  a  greasy  scum,  down 
in  the  harbor,  had  foamy  white  caps  tossing  upon 
them,  and  plebeian  Edgerly  went  about  with  a  red  nose 
and  its  hands  in  its  pockets,  and  some  of  the  ladies 
had  their  dress  skirts  over  their  heads. 

Popsy,  having  flashed  out  along  with  the  Retreat, 
was  much  stared  at  and  questioned ;  but  the  only 
information  gleaned  was  that  Popsy  had  a  sick  uncle 
in  the  back  room,  who  wasn't  to  be  disturbed.  It 
seems  he  had  bought  out  the  previous  occupant  who 
had  failed  ingloriously,  with  five  dollars  debts  and 
assets  nil. 

"  Uncle  says,  too,  we  musn't  trust,"  Popsy  added. 
As  she  spoke  a  low  chuckle  was  heard  through  the 


8  BROWN'S   RETREAT. 

key-hole  of  the  back  room,  as  if  some  one  couldn't 
help  laughing,  for  the  life  of  him. 

"  Merciful  powers,  what's  that  ?  "  asked  the  visitor. 

"It's  only  uncle  a-choking,"  said  Popsy,  with  much 
presence  of  mind. 

II. 

A  MAN"  may  be  a  rascal,  and  yet  possess  a  fine  sense 
of  humor.  That  was  the  matter  with  Popsy's 
uncle.  His  name  was  Brown,  and  before  he  became 
ripe  for  the  penitentiary  he  had  been  quite  a  decent 
member  of  society,  who  even  went  to  church  once  in 
a  while.  That  was  his  misfortune.  Had  he  not  gone 
to  church  he  might  still  have  been  a  decent  member 
of  society  instead  of  what  he  was. 

One  Sunday  morning  he  wandered  into  a  meeting- 
house, and  heard  the  preacher  grow  eloquent  on 
forgiving  the  sins  of  our  fellow-men ;  how  he,  the 
preacher,  loved  mankind,  and  there  was  nothing  his 
erring  brethren  could  do  to  him  which  would  turn 
him  against  them.  Brown  had  gone  into  the  sacred 
edifice  more  for  warmth  than  from  piety,  for  it  was  a 
bitter,  biting  winter  day,  and  his  lucky  star  was,  just 
then,  very  dim.  Being  there  he  listened,  and  listen- 
ing believed  the  eloquent  words.  Confidingly,  and 
with  a  certain  sense  of  humor,  too,  he  took  the  rever- 
end gentleman  at  his  word  :  that  night  the  parsonage 
was  entered  and  a  large  number  of  valuables  were 
stolen.  Brown  was  not  caught  in  the  act,  exactly, 
but  a  silver  cream  jug  was  found  in  his  left  coat-tail 
pocket  for  which  he  could  not  account ;  especially,  as 
it  had  a  strange  monogram  engraved  on  one  fat  side. 
To  his  surprise  and  disappointment  the  minister  ap- 
peared against  him ;  a  jury  without  a  bit  of  humor 
found  him  guilty,  and  a  prosaic  judge  sentenced  him 
to  five  years'  imprisonment. 


BROWN'S   RETREAT.  9 

Brown  did  not  belong  to  the  class  that  novelists 
delight  in  describing — the  noble  convict.  He  was 
simply  human,  and  being  down  on  his  luck  and  be- 
cause of  that  unfortunate  sense  of  humor,  he  had 
stolen,  but  beyond  that  he  would  harm  neither  woman 
nor  child. 

The  late  November  night  when  he  escaped,  one 
thought  had  been  uppermost  in  his  distracted  mind, — 
to  secrete  himself  on  some  outward-bound  vessel  in 
Edgerly  harbor,  and  be  carried  to  parts  unknown ; 
very  fine  in  theory,  very  hard  in  practice,  though 
Brown  had  his  friends,  and  there's  truth  in  the  adage, 
"  honor  among  thieves." 

That  eventful  night,  when,  trembling  and  shudder- 
ing, he  stood  once  more  under  the  skies,  a  free  man, 
unimaginative  creature  though  he  was,  he  felt  his  own 
unspeakable  wretchedness.  With  the  instinct  of  a 
hunted  beast  more  than  the  consciousness  of  a  man, 
with  a  deadly  fear  at  heart,  that  made  him  repent 
too  late  of  his  rash  folly,  he  turned  his  back  on  the 
open  country,  which  would  have  meant  safety  to  many 
a  man,  and  groped  his  way  through  miserable  alleys 
and  no -thoroughfares,  shrinking  at  every  sound  and 
starting  at  every  shadow,  to  Edgerly's  market-place. 
The  sky  was  black,  the  rain  fell  in  torrents  ;  and 
a  piercing  wind  swept  the  great  drops  hither  and 
thither. 

"  Dog's  weather  1  "  muttered  a  policeman,  and 
pulled  his  coat  collar  about  his  ears,  and  was  for  a 
moment  not  quite  as  watchful  as  he  should  have  been. 
"  Good  convict's  weather,"  Brown  may  have  thought, 
if  the  power  of  thinking  was  still  left  to  him  in  the 
midst  of  cold  and  terror,  as  he  crouched  in  an  angle 
of  the  great  market  that  stretched  its  granite  length 
in  dim  perspective,  lighted  at  distant  intervals  by 
flickering  gas-lamps,  about  which  the  rays,  falling  on 


lO  BROWN'S   RETREAT. 

mist  and  rain,  formed  a  dismal  yellow  halo.  De- 
serted all,  deserted. 

Edgerly  market  lay  quite  near  the  wharves  ;  not 
very  respectable  to  be  sure,  but  Brown  and  respecta- 
bility had  long  since  ceased  to  know  each  other. 
Quite  unhindered  he  continued  his  vagrant,  groping 
way,  till,  being  about  to  turn  a  corner,  a  corner  with 
a  traitorous  street-lamp,  he  ran  face  to  face  against 
another  man. 

"  Damn  you  !  "  muttered  the  new-comer.  Then 
catching  sight  of  the  cowering  face,  he  grasped  the 
wretched  man's  arm  with  the  power  of  a  vice.  "  You, 
Brown," — 

"You,  Jim,"  —  and  Brown  tried  to  free  himself 
and  raised  one  clenched  fist. 

"  None  o'  that,  Brown ;  we're  friends !  Aren't 
you — why — you  must  have — you  must  have  " — 

"  Cut  }  Yes,"  Brown  interposed.  "  I'm  off,  Jim. 
They'll  be  after  me  now,  sure  !  "  he  cried,  and  peered 
anxiously  about. 

"  From  the  .  .  .  ? "  Jim  asked,  turning  his  thumb 
in  the  direction  of  Edgerly's  prison.  Brown  nodded, 
and  was  about  to  hurry  on,  when  the  other  stopped 
him.  "  Yours  is  hard  luck,  old  boy.  Here,  take 
this  ;  it'll  help  you  on.  I'll  do  more  for  you  if  I  can, 
— for  old  time  sake,  ye  know."  Thrusting  some 
money  into  the  man's  hand,  this  good  Samaritan,  in 
the  guise  of  a  common  sailor,  vanished. 

With  a  ray  of  comfort  at  heart  Brown  clutched  the 
money  to  his  breast,  and  at  last  found  himself  in  that 
narrow,  zigzag  street  which  led  to  the  black  water  at 
the  foot  of  the  wharf,  a  street  not  very  dainty  as  to  its 
inhabitants,  and  very  willing  to  give  anything  it  pos- 
sessed for  miserable  money.  It  was  the  most  unde- 
sirable of  all  the  streets  in  a  great  city, — a  street  with 
tumble-down,  wooden  houses  and  odd  nooks ;  with 
narrow  lanes  and  alleys  creeping  out,  and,  here  and 


BROWN'S   RETREAT.  II 

there,  dark  quadranp;les  below  the  level  of  the  street, 
with  rickety  wooden  steps  leading  down  to  them,  and 
dimly  lighted  by  an  oil  lamp  swinging  from  a  wooden 
arch  overhead  and  throwing  a  wretched  glimmer  on 
unspeakable  poverty  and  crime.  Down  this  street 
the  culprit  crept.  He  had  just  reached  such  a  quad- 
rangle, and  had  shrunk  back  from  the  dreary  darkness 
and  the  dreary  light,  when  he  heard  a  bitter  sobbing, 
and  the  next  instant  he  felt  something  pull  at  his 
trousers.  With  a  shudder  and  an  oath  he  looked 
down. 

"  Let  go,  you  brat  I "  he  muttered,  as  he  caught 
sight  of  the  shivering  form  of  a  child  crouching  on 
the  top  of  the  miserable  flight  of  steps.  The  child 
ceased  sobbing  and  shrank  back  at  the  sudden  vio- 
lence of  face  and  tone,  while  the  unhappy  man  dis- 
appeared into  the  darkness.  There  is  a  touch  of 
superstition  in  the  most  unimaginative  and  irreligious 
of  us, — a  feeling  that,  somehow,  as  we  do,  so  shall 
we  be  done  by.  Fleeing,  as  he  was,  from  every  known 
peril.  Brown  was  yet  stopped  in  his  headlong  course 
by  an  unexplained  feeling  that  a  certain  guiding 
power — Brown  would  call  it  '*  luck,"  in  an  unvar- 
nished statement — might,  in  retribution,  forsake  him 
as  he  had  forsaken  the  child.  So  he  retraced  his 
steps  to  where  she  had  fallen  on  her  face  and  was 
weeping  bitterly.  "  What's  the  matter  ?  "  he  asked, 
roughly. 

"  They've  turned  me  out  o'  doors,  for  father's  gone, 
I  don't  know  where,  and  mother — mother's  dead, — 
and  oh,  I'm  so  cold  and  hungry,  and  I'm  so  afraid ! " 
she  cried,  looking  about, fearfully. 

"  Well,  what  shall  I  do  with  you,  young  'un  ?  " 

The  child  stopped  sobbing,  and  looking  up  to  him 
with  an  imploring  face  said,  with  innocent  confidence, 
'*  P'raps  you'll  take  me  with  you," 


12  BROWN'S   RETREAT. 

It  did  not  enter  Brown's  head  to  disbelieve  her 
story. 

"Take  you  with  me,"  he  repeated,  with  a  grim 
smile,  for  he  saw  the  ghastly  humor  of  the  thing, — 
"  take  you  with  me  ?  Why,  I  haven't  got  a  bunk  for 
myself  to-night." 

The  child  had  been  bred  in  that  state  of  society 
where  hunted-down  Brown  was  but  an  every-day  ob- 
ject to  her.  He  seemed  a  stranger  in  Edgerly,  and 
what  wonder,  therefore,  that  he  was  without  a  lodging? 

"  I  know  of  a  house  where  they'll  take  you  in," 
she  said  eagerly ;  "  that  is,  if  you  can  pay,"  she  added, 
with  some  misgivings.  Brown  nodded.  "  It's  right 
here  in  the  street, — near  the  wharf ;  and — and — 
p'raps  you'll  tell  'em  to  take  me  in,  too,  and — and 
p'raps  you'll  give  me  a  bit  of  bread." 

"  Go  ahead,"  said  Brown,  and  he  followed  his 
ragged  guide.  He  was  reckless,  this  breaker  of  laws, 
and  as  a  gambler  stakes  his  all  on  one  throw  of  the 
dice,  so  he  staked  life  and  liberty  on  this  small  va- 
grant, with  a  feeling  of  superstition  that  his  "  luck  " 
could  not  forsake  him,  for  had  he  not  befriended  one 
nearly  as  wretched  as  himself  ? 

The  child  led  the  way  to  a  tumble-down  wooden 
house.  The  landlady,  a  middle-aged  virago,  was  just 
having  a  dispute  with  a  slightly  intoxicated  lodger, 
which  she  postponed  to  attend  to  business.  The 
delicate  matter  of  references  not  being  alluded  to, 
the  stranger,  in  consideration  of  a  certain  modest  sum, 
was  allowed  to  take  possession  of  a  dingy  six-by-ten- 
feet  shop,  with  a  small  room  back  of  it,  which  its  dis- 
couraged last  occupant  had  forsaken. 

"Two  doors  and  a  window,"  said  Brown,  peer- 
ing curiously  about  in  the  miserable  room.  "  One 
door  leads  into  the  shop,  the  other  into  the  entry,  and 
the  window,"  he  said,  throwing  it  open  and  putting 
his  head  out,  "  into  an  alley — so  !  "     Then  he  seated 


BROWN'S   RETREAT.  13 

himself  on  the  ragged  bed,  and,  dangling  his  legs, 
stared  into  the  pinched,  haggard  face  of  the  child, 
who  stood  watching  him  very  patiently.  '*  And  what 
may  your  name  be,  young'  un  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Popsy,"  she  said,  and  returned  his  stare. 

"  You're  pretty  well  alone  in  the  world  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered. 

"  So  am  I,  so  am  I.  We  might,"  he  added,  as  if 
thinking  aloud, — "  we  might  hang  on  to  each  other, 
for  the  present  at  least,  might  n't  we  ?  " 

"  I  bet  we  might !  "  Popsy  answered  energetically, 
with  a  world  of  gratitude  in  her  old  young  eyes. 

*'  Well,  then,  call  me  uncle ;  Nunc,  you  might  say, 
for  short.     Now,  Popsy  ? " 

"  Well,  Nunc  ?  " 

"  Fetch  a  pint  of  milk  and  a  loaf  of  bread." 

Popsy  disappeared,  and  Brown  lay  back  on  the  bed 
and  laughed.  The  idea  of  his  playing  the  part  of 
protsctor  was  too  funny ;  it  struck  him  so  forcibly 
that  he  forgot  his  own  precarious  position  in  amuse- 
ment at  the  comic  side  of  the  transaction. 

Such  was  the  advent  of  Brown,  who  hiding  by  day 
prowled  about  at  night  in  search  of  means  to  escape 
from  Edgerly  town  and  the  Edgerly  laws  he  had  bro- 
ken. Yet  the  man  could  not  be  the  man  he  was 
without  having  his  little  joke.  In  his  leisure  mo- 
ments, so  very  plentiful,  he  traced  the  words  "  Brown's 
Retreat  "  on  a  pine  board,  and,  trusting  to  the  name  of 
Brown  as  a  disguise,  nailed  it  over  the  shop  window 
one  night,  where  it  surprised  Edgerly  the  next  morn- 
ing, to  the  intense  delight  of  its  owner,  who  nearly 
choked  with  suppressed  laughter  when  an  unsuspect- 
ing policeman,  in  passing,  read  the  sign  and  grinned. 

That  policeman  had  a  nice  sense  of  humor,  but  it 
was  as  nothing  compared  to  Brown's. 


14  BROWN'S  RETREAT. 


III. 

BUT  Justice  did  not  sleep.  Indeed  she  put  her 
hand  into  her  respectable  pocket  and  offered  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  reward  for  the  apprehension 
of  the  fugitive  Brown,  which  stimulated  quite  a  num- 
ber of  loafers  to  find  him  out. 

November  turned  into  the  bitterest,  coldest  De- 
cember. Approaching  Christmas  hardly  disturbed 
this  part  of  Edgerly  by  any  undue  gladness  ;  though 
Brown's  Retreat  made  a  sacrifice  to  the  season  in  the 
shape  of  a  few  twigs  of  holly  and  an  evergreen-tree. 

Popsy  had  developed  fine  shop-keeping  talents, 
with  a  shrewd  eye  open  for  cash  customers.  This 
calculating  eye,  in  looking  over  the  street  one  De- 
cember morning,  lighted  on  a  stranger  in  an  attire 
several  degrees  better  than  that  usually  worn  by  the 
gentlemen  about,  with  something  military  in  his 
slouched  hat  and  dyed  mustache. 

This  personage,  with  his  hands  in  his  trousers 
pockets,  stared  at  the  sign  of  Brown's  Retreat,  and 
said  "  Hallo ! "  with  a  dim  sense  of  amusement. 
Then  he  looked  in  at  the  door,  and  said  "  Hallo  ? " 
interrogatively.  Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he 
leaned  his  elbow  gracefully  on  the  counter,  and  re- 
marked to  Popsy, — 

"  Brown's  a  great  one  to  joke,  ain't  he?"  and  he 
stared  about  at  the  dismal  place.  "  Calling  this  a  re- 
treat is  a  joke  !  You  belong  to  Brown,  don't  you  ? "  he 
abruptly  asked  Popsy,  who  stood  by  in  open  mouthed 
consternation. 

"  If  you  please,"  she  said,  with  a  little  curtsy, — 
**  if  you  please,  sir,  Brown's  my  sick  uncle,  and  mustn't 
be  disturbed." 

"  Mustn't  he  ?     Well,  we'll  just  see ! " 


BROWN'S   RETREAT.  1$ 

"  No,  you  shan't !  "  cried  Popsy,  and  thrust  herself 
between  the  stranger  and  the  back  room. 

"  Why,  you  ferocious  little  savage !  what  harm 
would  it  do  him  ? "  he  cried,  retreating,  nevertheless, 
while  he  stroked  his  dyed  mustache  and  laughed  a 
weak  laugh,  which  would  have  been  still  weaker 
could  he  have  seen  through  the  door,  where  Brown 
sat  on  the  bed  with  a  loaded  revolver  in  his  hand, 
ready  with  an  unexpected  welcome. 

'*  He's  sick,  and  you  mustn't  go  in,"  Popsy  said  has- 
tily, fearing,  child  though  she  was,  that  she  had  made 
a  blunder,  even  in  her  quick  defence  of  him ;  for  she 
knew  his  story,  and  that  he  was  waiting  for  a  favor- 
able moment  to  escape  on  one  of  the  schoone?:s  down 
at  the  wharf, — a  transaction  by  no  means  strange  to 
Popsy. 

The  mysterious  stranger,  as  if  in  his  turn  to  allay 
her  suspicion,  or  her  alarm,  looked  over  the  wares  on 
the  counter,  and  at  last  purchased  a  clay  pipe,  and 
then  sauntered  out  of  the  shop,  followed  by  the  child's 
eager  gaze  and  by  a  couple  of  cautious  eyes  that 
looked  stealthily  out  of  the  inner  door  after  the  re- 
treating figure,  and  made  such  a  mental  note  of  it, 
that  that  inquisitive  person  would  not  have  been  safe 
from  Brown  beneath  any  disguise.  "The  devil's  in 
that  sneaking  cuss ! "  he  muttered,  as  he  drew  his 
head  in  again.     '*  Popsy." 

"  What's  it.  Nunc  ? "  the  child  asked,  putting  her 
shrewd  face  in  at  the  door. 

"  If  that  chap  comes  loafing  round  here  again,  you 
do  this ;  do  you  understand  ?  "  So  Popsy  coughed 
obediently,  as  Brown  directed.  "  It's  getting  as  hot 
as  h — 11  round  here.  I'll  have  to  cut,  or  they'll  pin 
me  again,"  he  muttered. 

"  Nunc,"  said  Popsy,  still  lingering,  "  there  was 
another  man  here  this  morning  what  asked  to  see 
you ;  and  I  said  you  was  sick,  and  he  said  he  was  a 


l6  BROWN'S   RETREAT. 

doctor.  I  said  you  wouldn't  see  no  doctor ;  then  he 
said  he  was  a  friend  o'  yourn,  and  he'd  come  round 
again." 

There  was  a  look  of  veiled  fear  in  the  man's  eyes, 
and  he  clenched  his  brawny  hands,  and  felt  as  if  the 
game  he  was  playing  was  coming  to  a  delicate  point. 

The  zigzag  street  was  indeed  becoming  unsafe 
quarters.  The  neighborhood  was  accustomed  to 
harbor  suspicious  characters,  and  after  a  first  nod  of 
surprise,  forgot  all  about  them.  But  the  mysterious 
Brown,  who  was  never  seen,  who  rented  a  shop  where 
there  was  little  to  sell,  became  the  subject  of  conver- 
sation. The  police  was  after  him  too ;  but  it  was 
not  the  police  that  looked  in  at  the  store  and  bought 
clay  pipes.  The  police  was  scouring  the  country 
far  and  wide  in  search  of  the  criminal,  but  it  had  not 
occurred  to  that  able  body  to  examine  the  region  un- 
der its  very  nose  ;  that  duty  was  being  performed  by 
self-constituted  spies,  who  had  recourse  to  the  police 
only  at  the  last  moment,  fearing  it  might  claim  the 
reward.  The  culprit,  knowing  the  tricks  of  the  trade, 
instantly  recognized  his  visitors'  errand,  and  muttered 
a  curse  upon  them.  The  man  was  not  so  delicate  in 
his  sentiments — not  being  a  noble  convict — as  to 
doubt  the  honor  or  purity  of  their  profession ;  he 
merely  questioned  their  right  to  be  stepping  into  the 
shoes  of  those  whose  duty  it  was  to  arrest  him  in  the 
way  of  business. 

"  Curse  them  for  sneaking  dogs  !  Why  can't  they 
leave  a  fellow  alone  !  "  he  thought,  with  a  despair  at 
heart  that  nearly  made  him  give  in,  beaten. 

Nevertheless,  that  night  he  once  more  groped  his 
way  stealthily  out  of  the  house,  through  a  back  door 
that  led  into  an  alleyway,  darker  for  a  cloudy  night 
and  dirtier  than  usual  for  a  spell  of  thawing.  Into 
this  dirt  and  darkness  Brown  disappeared. 


BROWN'S   RETREAT.  17 

The  neighborhood  about  Brown's  Retreat,  if  not 
very  honest  or  respectable,  had  a  touching  confidence 
in  other  people's  honesty  and  respectability ;  for  it 
always  slept  with  its  doors  wide  open  in  summer  and 
on  the  latch  in  winter,  the  delicate  formality  of  a  bell 
being  quite  unknown.  At  midnight,  or  a  little  later, 
the  faint  light  of  a  tallow  candle  woke  Popsy  from 
her  slumbers  on  a  miscellaneous  heap  of  old  clothes 
and  a  patchwork  quilt,  to  the  fact  that  an  unknown 
man  was  bending  over  her.  A  sailor  he  seemed  ;  a 
strong  looking  man,  with  a  face  smoothly  shaven  but 
for  a  short,  cleanly  cut  mustache. 

Being  only  a  child,  Popsy  was  for  a  moment  filled 
with  unspeakable  terror  at  the  sudden  awakening, 
the  light,  and  the  strange  man.  Then  there  flashed 
into  her  mind,  the  danger  of  the  man  who  had  be- 
friended her. 

Without  moving  her  eyes  from  the  stranger's  face, 
she  slipped  to  her  feet,  and  stood  at  the  door  of 
Brown's  room,  as  if  to  defend  it.  Not  a  word  she 
said,  but  stood  there  shivering  and  trembling,  with 
one  small  hand  on  the  door-knob  and  a  pleading  look 
in  her  faithful  eyes  that  made  his  own  dim  ;  that  made 
him  turn  away  for  an  instant,  and  then  ask  in  a  husky 
voice,  "  Don't  you  know  me,  Popsy  ?  "  Popsy  started 
at  the  tones.  "  Well,  this  beats  all !  Don't  you  know 
your  Nunc.-*"  cried  the  man.  "I  swear,  youngster, 
either  you're  asleep  or  I'm  another  man.  What, 
don't  you  know  me,  Popsy  ? "  he  repeated  and  held 
out  his  arms  to  her. 

"  Yes,  you  are  Nunc !  "  the  child  cried,  throwing 
her  arms  about  his  neck,  "  and  yet  you  are  not." 

The  man  was,  indeed,  well  disguised.  Since  Popsy 
had  known  him  his  face  had  become  rough  and  dark 
by  a  beard  of  some  weeks'  growth.  Soap  and  water 
and  a  comb,  had  helped  the  transformation.  The 
trim  sailor's  dress,  rough  as  it  was,  formed  such  a 

3 


1 8  BROWN'S   RETREAT. 

contrast  to  the  wretched  clothes  he  had  picked  up 
piece-meal. 

With  better  clothes  something  of  that  disgraced, 
hunted-down  look  in  his  eyes  had  disappeared ;  so 
that  as  far  as  his  outer  man  was  concerned  Brown 
might  again  have  been  classed  as  a  respectable  mem- 
ber of  society. 

"  And  yet  you  are  not  Nunc,"  the  child  repeated, 
not  quite  comprehending  his  disguise. 

Brown  said  nothing,  but  lifting  her  in  his  arms 
carried  her  into  the  back  room  and  locked  the  door. 
Placing  the  candle  on  the  rough  table,  he  seated 
himself  and  took  the  child  on  his  knee. 

"Look  here,  Popsy,"  he  began,  with  some  embar- 
rassment, "you  know  I'm  hiding  from  the — from 
the  "— 

"  Perlice." 

"Well,  yes,  to  be  sure.  And  the  fact  is,  to  make 
a  long  story  short,  those  two  chaps  who've  been 
a-prowling  round  here  are  making  the  place  too  hot 
for  me  ;  and,  Popsy,"  he  said,  with  a  certain  tender- 
ness in  his  voice  one  would  hardly  have  expected  from 
so  rough  a  man, — "  Popsy,  I've  got  to  leave  you, 
though  I  said  I  wouldn't ;  and  it  does  seem  hard  and 
mean,  now,  doesn't  it,  young  'un  ? " 

"  Oh,  Nunc,  Nunc  !  "  the  child  sobbed. 

"  There,  there  I  "  Brown  said,  rocking  her  to  and 
fro  like  a  sick  baby.  "  Now,  listen  to  what  I've  done. 
You  don't  know  Jim  ?  Jim's  a  good  one  and  has 
stood  by  me  like  a  rock,  darn  him  !  Now  Jim's  got 
me  a  berth  along  with  him  on  the  Mary  Ann,  bound 
for  the  East  Indies.  The  skipper's  glad  of  a  steady 
hand,  and  asks  no  questions  this  time  o'  year. 
There'll  come  a  woman  for  you  to-morrow,  Popsy, 
who'll  take  ye  along  with  her.  She's  Jim's  sister, 
and,"  speaking  almost  in  a  whisper,  "  once  she  was 
to  have  been  my  wife, — my  wife.     But  I  went  to  the 


BROWN'S   RETREAT.  19 

dogs — God  forgive  me  ! — and  she's  only  Jim  s  sistei 
now.  Be  mindful  of  her,  Popsy;  be  true  and  good 
like  her,  and  some  day  you'll  grow  up  to  be  a  good 
woman,  just  as  she  is, — Heaven  bless  her !  "  Brown 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands  for  a  moment. 

*'  I  will,  I  will.  Nunc !  "  the  child  answered  piteously. 
"  But  when  are  you  coming  back  ?  " 

"  Never,"  said  Brown,  accustomed  to  staring  hard 
facts  in  the  face, — never.  But  when  you're  a  woman 
grown, — a  good  woman,  mind,  like  her, — perhaps 
then  you'll  come  out  to  me — But  what's  the  matter, 
young  'un  ?  "  as  Popsy,  slipping  from  his  knee,  with 
head  bent  forward,  listened  intently. 

"  Nunc,  don't  you  hear  something  ?  "  she  whispered, 
terror-stricken. 

Instantly  Brown  was  deadly  still,  listening  with  that 
keen  suspense  which  only  a  man  feels  whose  liberty 
and  life  are  at  the  mercy  of  a  sound. 

There  was  the  noise  as  of  a  delicate  tampering 
with  the  metal  about  the  knob  of  the  inner  door  which 
Brown  had  locked, — a  noise  which  would  have  been 
unheard  in  the  day-time,  but  which  the  dead  midnight 
caught. 

There  was  only  time  to  act.  With  the  quickness 
of  a  man  to  whom  self-possession  in  danger  has  be- 
come a  second  nature,  he  sprang  to  the  low  window, 
tore  it  open,  and  without  another  word  or  look, leaped 
out  into  the  midnight  darkness,  and  ran,  ran  for  dear 
life,  with  the  horror  at  heart  of  perhaps  running  into 
the  very  hands  of  his  pursuers. 

The  child,  with  quick  instinct,  shut  the  betraying 
window,  and  then,  with  the  hot  tears  welling  up  into 
her  eyes,  shrank  back  into  a  dim  corner,  and  waited 
till  the  door  opened,  and  by  the  flash  of  a  lantern 
and  the  flaring  light  of  the  candle, she  saw  three  men 
enter,  one  of  whom  carried  a  revolver  in  his  hand. 
This  last  man  was  a  policeman,  and  he  stepped  in 


20  BROWN'S   RETREAT. 

with  a  certain  business-like  air  which  was  in  fine  con- 
trast to  the  lagging  steps  of  the  men  behind  him,  in 
whom  the  child  instantly  recognized  the  nautical 
loafer  of  the  morning,  and  the  individual  who  had  said 
he  was  a  doctor  and  a  friend. 

"  Where's  Brown  ? "  and  the  policeman  peered 
about,  his  lantern  in  one  hand  and  the  revolver  in  the 
other. 

"This  is  Brown's  Retreat  with  a  vengeance,"  said 
the  nautical  gentleman,  while  the  friendly  individual 
growled  out  some  strong  language  about  meddling 
fools. 

Without  a  knowledge  of  what  would  happen,  with 
the  glitter  of  the  ugly  looking  pistol  in  her  eyes,  but 
with  a  world  of  gratitude  in  her  heart,  poor  Popsy 
crept  out  of  her  corner,  and  said  humbly  and  plead- 
ingly, "  Please,  sir,  I'm  Brown  !  " 

Of  course  they  tried  to  ferret  him  out,  but  the  hu- 
morous rogue  did  actually  escape  on  the  Mary  Ann, 
bound  for  the  East  Indies,  with  the  briskest  kind  of 
a  breeze  to  push  her  along. 

I  had  a  feeling  of  sympathy  with  Brown  all  the 
time,  for  he  had  a  vein  of  humor  in  him ;  and  a  vein 
of  humor  is  an  excellent  point  in  a  man,  even  if  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  are  offered  as  a  reward  for 
his  capture  as  a  common  thief. 

He  was,  to  be  sure,  a  bit  fool-hardy,  in  his  apprecia- 
tion of  a  joke,  for  in  his  leisure  he  nailed  up  another 
deal-board  with  "  Brown's  Retreat "  upon  it  at  the 
head  of  his  bunk,  to  the  curiosity  of  the  seamen. 
Only  one  understood  the  delicate  innuendo,  and  that 
was  the  good  Samaritan,  Jim. 

As  his  country's  prisons  were  never  again  honored 
by  his  presence,  as  nothing  was  heard  of  his  death, 
as  mysterious  presents  are  continually  reaching  Popsy, 
who  has  grown  to  be  a  true  and  noble-hearted  girl 


BROWN'S   RETREAT.  21 

just  as  Jim's  sister  was  before  her,  it  is  pleasant  to 
think  that  the  wretched  criminal  found  some  spot  on 
earth  where  be  prospered  ;  where  he  could  have  his 
little  joke  without  being  locked  up  ;  where  preachers 
say  what  they  mean,and  human  nature  is  to  be  trusted. 
The  name  of  Brown  is  not  uncommon.  Should 
you  know  a  middle  aged  man  of  that  name,  with  a 
misty  past  and  a  taste  for  a  joke,  you  might  ask  him 
if  he  ever  heard  of  Brown's  Retreat. 


ODELIA   BLYNN. 
I. 

DEACON  NYMPHUS  PROUTY,  being  tempted 
by  Satan,  succumbed.  His  fellow-deacons,  on 
hearing  of  it,  were  surprised  that  Heaven  did  not 
strike  him  dead  then  and  there.  At  present,  how- 
ever, he  had  just  been  in  Satan's  claws,  and  he  was 
returning  home  to  Timlik, travel-stained  and  tired. 

It  was  a  rather  hilly  road,  and  as  the  Deacon 
looked  down  from  the  summit  he  saw  in  the  valley 
below  the  sharp  point  of  a  church  steeple,  at  sight 
of  which  he  paused,  and,  resting  on  his  stick, 
chuckled  sinfully. 

"  I've  ben  a  professin'  Christian  more'n  fifty 
years,"  he  thought,  wagging  his  old  head,  "  an'  I 
guess  the  Lord  won't  give  me  over  for  one  little 
backslide.  The  ways  of  sin  air  pleasant, — I  might 
a'most  say  that  they  air  pleasanter  than  the  ways  o' 
righteousness."  Here  he  shook  his  head  at  the 
steeple.  . "  Lor',  Lor',"  he  exclaimed  in  sudden 
alarm  ;  "  the  Devil  's  very  nigh  on  to  you,  Nym- 
phus ! " 

The  shadows  were  creeping  like  ghosts  out  of  the 
fringe  of  woodland  on  one  side  of  the  road.  On  the 
other,  high  on  a  ragged  bank,  stood  a  tumble-down 
house  of  two  rooms,  whose  gray,  decaying  sides 
were  half  hidden  by  a  disorderly  tangle  of  grape- 
vines. The  rank  grass  grew  to  the  sunken  thresh- 
old, where  by  the  open  door  sat  a  cat  which  looked 
at  the  old  man  with  wicked,  indifferent  eyes. 

22 


ODELIA   BLYNN.  23 

Of  all  the  dreary  places  it  was  the  dreariest. 

A  slim,  tall  girl,  with  a  sallow  face  and  unsmiling 
gray  eyes,  came  to  the  door,  upset  the  cat,  and  in 
turn  moodily  watched  the  Deacon  trudging  nearer. 
One  bright  star  trembled  in  the  East,  and  in  the 
sparse  farm  houses  the  lights  began  to  twinkle  like 
an  echo  of  sight  from  the  stars  above.  The  clamor- 
ous chirp  of  the  crickets  beat  the  air,  emphasizing 
the  stillness.  Then  there  broke  through  the  silence 
the  quick,  unsteady  clangor  of  a  thin-toned  bell. 

The  Deacon  glanced  at  the  girl  in  the  door-way. 

"  Be  you  goin'  to  meetin',  Odelia,"  he  asked,  stand- 
ing still. 

She  nodded.  "  P'r'aps  you  don't  know  that  I  ain't 
ben  'round  here  since  mornin'  ?  " 

"  Haven't  you  ?  " 

"  I  guess  ef  I  wanted  to,  I  could  tell  you  some- 
thin'  that'd  kinder  s'rprise  you,  Odelia  Blynn." 

"  Well  ? " 

"You  come  'long  down  here." 

She  came  unwillingly  down  the  footpath  trodden 
through  the  grass,  while  the  cat  followed  her  with  ele- 
vated tail.  The  Deacon  grasped  her  wrist  and  put- 
ting up  one  horny  hand  as  a  wall,  whispered,  "  I've 
ben  to  the  circus,  Odelia  Blynn." 

For  a  moment  she  stared  at  him,  then  slowly  a 
faint  smile  crept  over  her  unsmiling  face. 

"  I've  ben  a  professin'  Christian  more'n  fifty  years," 
the  Deacon  continued,  "  and  the  Devil  ain't  had  no 
hold  on  me  at  all,  for  I  ain't  gev  him  no  chance.  But 
I  says  to  myself  '  'Tain't  no  glory  to  the  Lord,  Nym- 
phus,  ef  you  don't  never  backslide,  cos'  you  keep  out- 
er the  ways  of  sin.  So  you  jest  git  into  'em,  an'  then 
see  what  Satan  '11  do  1*  an'  so  I  did,  and  it's  six  miles 
there  and  six  miles  back,  an'  I'm  kinder  shaky  in  my 
legs." 

"  Deacon  Prouty,  what  did  you  see  ?  "     There  was 


24  ODELIA  BLYNN. 

such  a  feverish  light  in  Odelia's  eyes,  her  lank,  lithe 
body  quivered  in  the  faded. print  gown  she  wore,  so 
that  even  the  Deacon  was  startled. 

"  I  never  see  you  like  this  before,  Odelia." 

"  Tell  me  !  "  she  cried,  and  she  shook  the  aged  man. 

"  That  ain't  the  way  to  git  information  out  of  me," 
he  retorted,  and  turned  away, 

"  I'm  sorry — there  !  "  she  cried  impatiently.  "  Now 
sit  down  and  tell." 

The  Deacon  relented,  for  he  yearned  for  sympathy ; 
so  they  sat  down  on  a  flat  rock  by  the  road  and 
Odelia  listened  to  the  Deacon's  story. 

"  Music  and  lights,  and  folks,  and  women  smiling 
and  riding  on  horses,  and  dancing,"  she  repeated 
slowly  as  he  concluded. 

"  The  women-folks  was  that  bewtiful,"  he  added, 
with  a  grin. 

Odelia  did  not  heed  him.  'She  started  to  her  feet 
in  a  frenzy  of  defiance.  "Wouldn't  I  just  like  to 
belong  to  a  circus !  Don't  I  just  wish  I  could  run 
away,  and  be  like  one  of  them  women  that  ride  on 
horses  and  laugh  and  dance  and  hear  music  and  see 
sights  ! " 

"  Lord  hev  mercy  on  you,  you're  out  of  your 
senses,"  the  Deacon  remonstrated,  and  then  added 
with  pleasing  frankness,  "Besides  you  really  ain't 
good  lookin'  enough  for  that.  Them  women-folks 
they  was  plump  an'  smiling,  an'  they  had  red  cheeks 
and  sech  bright  eyes.  Now  you  know  you're  nothin' 
but  a  yellow  slip  of  a  critter  and  you  looks  mostly 
cross  an'  no  ways  bewtiful  that  I  can  see.  So  you'd 
best  stay  here,  for  them  ways  ain't  your  ways." 

The  momentary  excitement  had  passed  and  Odelia 
hung  her  head,  and  the  light  faded  out  of  her  eyes. 

"  It  ain't  right  of  the  Lord  to  make  some  women 
like  them  and  some  like  me." 


ODELIA   BLYNN.  2$ 

The  Deacon  coughed  in  expostulation  just  as  the 
second  meeting-bell  rang. 

"Guess  you'd  best  keep  goin'  to  meetin'  pretty 
reg'lar,  Odelia,  you  take  easy  to  the  ways  o'  sin ; 
you'd  best  go  and  git  supported." 

"  I'm  going,"  she  answered  moodily,  and  climbed 
the  narrow  path  to  the  house  to  fetch  her  hood,  and 
then  went  down  the  road  to  the  church  in  the  hollow. 


11. 

LIFE  was  not  long  enough  to  call  it  properly  Tim- 
berlake,  so  it  was  called  "Timlik,"  with  a  nasal 
twang. 

The  Timberlake  lay  in  the  heart  of  the  valley,  and 
on  summer  evenings  when  the  low,  pine-covered  hills 
stood  clear  against  a  red-gold  sky,  then  the  Timber- 
lake  was  transformed  into  a  sheet  of  molten  gold, 
while,  amid  the  rushes,  reeds  and  grasses  along  its 
banks,  the  bull  frogs  uttered  their  solitary  note,  like 
the  rough  stroke  of  a  bow  across  a  bass-fiddle. 

Poverty  and  thrift  were  characteristic  of  Timlik, 
which  found  its  only  relaxation  in  the  whitewashed 
meeting-house  with  the  pointed  steeple. 

Behind  the  church  stood  a  weather-beaten  shed 
where  the  farmers  hitched  their  horses  of  a  Sunday, 
and  here  the  poor  beasts  shivered  through  the  bitter 
winter  weather.  Timlik  was  easy  about  its  horses, 
and  so  they  were  an  asthmatic  breed,  lean  in  the 
flanks,  rough  of  hide  and  of  short  life, 

A  varied  array  of  vehicles  loomed  up  in  the  dusk 
as  Odelia  approached,  and  a  familiar  hymn,  dragging 
its  weary  length,  greeted  her  as  she  entered  the  ves- 
try. It  was  a  low-studded  room,  lighted  by  dull 
kerosene  lamps,  and  the  whitewashed  walls  were  dec- 


26  ODELIA   BLYNN. 

orated  with  mottoes  of  a  godly  nature,  that  hung 
askew. 

The  minister  sat  on  the  low  platform,  facing  his 
people ;  he  was  a  young  man  with  a  hectic  flush  on 
his  cheeks,  and  he  looked  tired, — but  that  was  char- 
acteristic of  the  congregation.  Odelia  was  surprised 
to  see  a  stranger  beside  the  minister,  for  strangers 
were  very  rare. 

She  sat  down  on  a  bench,  and  for  the  first  time 
she  was  hardly  conscious  of  either  the  hymn  or 
the  prayer.  She  was  at  war  with  herself,  and  she 
looked  up  with  a  conscience-stricken,  flushed  face 
when  the  minister  said  wearily :  *'  We  have  among 
us  a  great  sinner."  Would  he  command  her  to  rise 
and  confess  her  wickedness  ? 

"  Let  us  pray  for  him,"  he  added.  A  series  of 
energetic  groans  betrayed  the  sinner  behind  her,  and 
when  Odelia  ventured  to  look  back,  she  discovered 
Deacon  Prouty  mopping  his  face  with  a  red  and  yel- 
low handkerchief, 

"  I'm  a  great  sinner,"  he  moaned,  rocking  to  and 
fro.     "  I've  ben  to  the  Devil  jest  about  straight," 

"  The  Lord  hev  mercy  on  you,  Nymphus,"  cried  a 
sympathizing  worshiper, 

"  Deacon  Prouty,  we  will  hear  you  later  on,"  inter- 
posed the  minister.  "  At  present  we  are  to  listen  to 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Tourtelot,  missionary  to  the  Kalkamazu 
Islands,  who  hopes  to  interest  you  in  the  cause." 
^  It  is  not  our  purpose  to  give  Mr.  Tourtelot's  ad- 
dress. He  had  a  certain  rough,  picturesque  elo- 
quence unknown  to  Timlik.  He  rejoiced  in  his  work, 
and  there  was  something  contagious  in  the  enthu- 
siasm with  which  he  demanded  aid  and  workers. 
**  We  want  men  and  women  who  will  give  their  lives 
to  the  cause,  who  will  go  to  that  far-off  world  and 
carry  the  gospel  of  Christ  Jesus  to  the  unregenerate, 
who  are  living  and  dying  and  lost,  ignorant  of  the 


ODELIA   BLYNN.  2/ 

blessed  tidings  of  Salvation.  Do  your  duty,  Chris- 
tian men  and  women,  or  live  with  the  anguish  of 
duties  unfulfilled." 

Timlik  dispersed  in  a  glow  of  ardor,  and  the  Dea- 
cons remained  to  inquire  into  the  backsliding  of  their 
erring  brother.  They  were  five  gaunt  and  bony  men, 
with  long  beards  and  smoothly  shaven  upper  lips. 
Their  hair  they  wore  rather  long  and  their  broadcloth 
garments  were  gray  in  the  seams ;  an  air  of  acute 
solemnity  struck  a  chill  to  the  soul  of  Nymphus 
Prouty.  He  also  regretted  that  Deacon  Fell  seemed 
to  be  the  ruling  spirit,  for  he  had  sold  an  ancient 
mare  to  that  brother  only  a  few  days  before,  which 
was  not  all  that  Deacon  Fell's  fondest  hopes  had 
painted. 

"He's  a-goin'  for  me  jest  on  that  account,"  the  ■ 
aged  man  reflected,  "  but  it  ain't  being  a  good  Chris- 
tian." 

The  minister  opened  the  proceedings  with  another 
prayer  in  which  he  confided  the  erring  sinner  to  the 
Lord,  who  would  punish  him  as  He  should  see  fit,  to 
which  the  brethren  assented  with  groans  more  forci- 
ble than  polite. 

Then  the  minister  looked  solemnly  at  him.  "  Bro- 
ther Prouty,  we  have  heard  awful  accounts  of  you. 
You're  on  your  way  to  hell !  How  dare  you,  an  old 
man  on  the  very  brink  of  the  grave  ?  " 

"  Some  one's  ben  a-tellin'  stories  about  me,"  said 
the  culprit,  and  his  eyes  rested  on  Deacon  Fell.  He 
was  an  emaciated  individual,  and  his  gray  beard  was 
tinged  with  tobacco  juice,  while  a  straggling  halo  of 
yellow-gray  hair  escaped  from  underneath  the  brown 
wig  which  he  had  inherited  from  his  grandfather. 

"  Guess  I  know  who's  ben  tellin',''  and  the  Dea- 
con blew  a  blast  on  his  bandanna  handkerchief. 

"  Wal',  it  was  me,  brother  Nymphus,"  Deacon  Fell 
retorted.     "But  an'  old  man  who  sells  a  spavined 


28  ODELIA   BLYNN. 

mare  one  week  an'  goes  to  the  circus  "  (an  awful  groan 
corroborated  this  statement)  "  the  next,  guess  it's  about 
time  to  snatch  him  as  a  brand  from  the  burning." 

A  grin  illuminated  Deacon  Prouty's  face,  and  he 
rocked  to  and  fro  in  noiseless  glee. 

"  Lord  hev  mercy  on  his  sinful  soul,  he  ain't  a  mite 
sorry." 

"  I  move,"  added  a  righteous  man  with  unrighteous 
curiosity,  "  that  he  tell  us  what  he  saw  at  the — place 
of  sin." 

A  murmur  of  approbation  hailed  this  suggestion. 
They  stared  at  him,  and  the  young  minister's  face 
was  more  than  usually  flushed. 

"  I've  ben  an'  seen  the  Devil's  works,"  the  sinner 
began,  boastfully.  "  I've  ben  walkin'  right  in  the 
jaws  of  hell." 

"That  you  hev,  Nymphus,  that  you  hev." 

"  An'  its  a  bewtiful  place,"  There  was  a  dramatic 
pause  and  the  minister  sighed. 

"I'm  an  old  man,  more'n  seventy  years  old,  an' 
I've  walked  in  the  paths  o'  righteousness  all  my 
days,"  (there  was  a  doubting  sniff  from  Deacon  Fell 
which  the  ancient  man  ignored,)  "  an'  jest  when  I'm 
ripe  for  glory,  Satan  comes  'long  an',  says  he,  no, 
Nymphus,  not  yet,  for,  says  he,  there's  a  circus  at 
East  Timlik.  And,  brethren,  my  soul's  ben  a-han- 
kerin'  for  a  circus  or  some  such  worldly  sight,  these 
fifty  years  or  more.  An'  I  jest  giv'  in  to  Satan  at 
half  past  six  this  morning.  So  I  walks  to  East  Tim- 
lik six  miles,  an'  six  miles  back,  a  pretty  good  stretch 
for  an  old  man's  legs." 

"  What  did  you  see.  Deacon  ?  "  a  brother  asked,  with 
some  impatience. 

"  I  see  lots  o'  wild  beasts,"  the  Deacon  began,  with 
a  sense  of  his  new  importance.  "  There  was  a  lion 
a-roarin'  fit  to  split,  and  there  was  a  sarpint  jest  the 
pattern  of  Mis'  Pinsey's  best  Sunday-go-to-meetin' 


ODELIA   BLYNN.  29 

calliker.  There  was  a  tiger  that  kind'er  ups  when 
he  sees  me,  so  I  pokes  him  with  my  stick.  There 
was  a  elephant  a-dancin'  tew  music — O  Lor'  there 
was  lots  !  "     Here  the  old  gentleman  paused. 

"Is  that  all,  Nymphus?" 

"  No,  'tain't  quite  all,  brother  Fell.  I  see  men- 
folks  a-standin'  on  their  heads  an'  a-ridin'  on  hosses, 
an'  a-playin'  on  instrewments."  Here  he  paused 
again. 

"  Deacon  Prouty,  did  you  see  anything  else  ? "  the 
young  minister  asked. 

"  I  see,"  the  Deacon  replied  in  a  hollow  voice,  "  I 
see  women-folks,  too."     The  assembly  groaned. 

"I  see  women-folks,  too,"  the  ancient  sinner  re- 
peated, "  an'  they  was  mighty  han'some  lookin'." 

The  assembly  groaned  again. 

The  minister  cleared  his  throat.     **  Well  ? "  he  said. 

"  I  seen  them  ride  hosses  a-standin'  on  their  heads 
an'  on  their  tails,  an'  smilin'  all  'round.  They  jumped 
through  paper  hoops  a-burnin',  an'  all  tew  music.  An' 
their  cheeks  was  that  red,  an'  their  eyes  was  a-spark- 
lin',  an'  they'd  on  sech  clothes.  I  never  see  sech 
clothes  before  in  all  my  born  days  !  White  they  was, 
an'  a-glitterin'  behind  an'  a-glitterin'  before,  an' — wal',' 
here  he  paused  bashfully.  "  They  wa'n't  special  long 
either  ways." 

Another  groan  greeted  this  description,  and  the 
minister  broke  in,  harshly. 

"That's  enough,  Nymphus  Prouty,  you've  been 
into  the  fire  of  hell." 

"  I  ain't  a  man  for  talkin',"  the  sinner  remarked  as 
he  spread  his  coat-tails  and  sat  down.  "  I  will  say 
that  I've  ben  led  away  by  Satan,  but,"  he  grinned 
defiance,  "  gracious,  I  ain't  sorry.  I'm  a  pretty  old 
man  an'  whatever  you  doagen  me  'twon't  be  for  long." 

So  was  Timlik  disgraced.  It  had  boasted  of  su- 
perior sanctity  to  the  neighboring  villages  and  now  it 


30  ODELIA   BLYNN. 

was  under  an  eclipse.  So  it  came  to  pass  that  Tim- 
lik  was  on  the  lookout  for  symptoms  of  exalted  piety 
which  should  cause  the  stain  of  Deacon  Prouty's 
backsliding  to  be  forgotten. 


III. 

MRS.  BLYNN  was  of  no  account  in  Timlik.  This 
poor  opinion  began  when  Joshua  Blynn  brought 
her  home  as  a  bride,  a  small,  washed-out  slip  of  a  girl 
with  a  conciliatory  giggle,  which  displayed  her  pink 
gums.  Timlik  resented  the  giggle,  and  being  itself 
of  a  sober  nature,  referred  all  Mrs.  Blynn's  misfortunes 
to  those  days  when  she  laughed  too  much  ;  and  her 
punishment  was  sufficient,  for  she  lost  her  husband 
and  five  children,  and  was  turned  out  of  her  farm,  after 
it  had  gone  to  rack  and  ruin. 

Now  she  was  a  withered  old  woman  with  faded 
eyes,  and  white  hair  like  a  thin  layer  of  cotton  wool, 
and  even  the  ghost  of  the  old  smile  had  vanished. 
Shfe  earned  a  pittance  braiding  rough  straw  hats,  such 
as  are  worn  by  farmers,  and,  as  people  did  not  speak 
to  her  much,  she  muttered  to  herself  a  good  deal,  and 
stared  into  the  dim  woods  over  the  way,  where  the 
white  birches  had  a  wind-blown  tilt  towards  the  road, 
as  if  they  were  listening. 

From  early  spring  until  late  autumn  she  sat  by  the 
open  door  working  monotonously.  It  is  difficult  to 
conquer  the  popular  opinion  that  you  are  of  no  ac- 
count, especially  in  a  small  place,  and  Mrs.  Blynn  re- 
signed herself  to  the  inevitable,  early  in  her  career. 
Even  Odelia  long  ago  agreed  with  Timlik,  with  a  bit- 
ter resentment  against  her  mother.  Though  they 
were  miserably  poor,  the  unwritten  laws  of  Timlik  de- 
clared certain  methods  of  earning  a  living  to  be  un- 


ODELIA  BLYNN.  3^ 

genteel,  and  to  hire  out  as  a  servant  was  the  crown 
and  summit  of  humiliation. 

So  Odelia,  having  exhausted  the  village  school,  em- 
ployed the  rest  of  the  time  in  doing  nothing  in  par- 
ticular. Timlik  was  of  the  opinion  that  Odelia  was 
"  mighty  proud,"  and  it  was  considered  greatly  to  her 
credit — why,  no  one  knew. 

"  Things  ain't  ben  as  they'd  oughter  with  Odelia, 
her  mother  bein'  of  no  account,"  was  the  general  ver- 
dict on  her  career. 

So  Odelia  did  nothing,  but  she  went  to  all  the 
church  meetings,  and  this  had  been  her  life,  to  the 
day  when  she  heard  about  the  circus  and  listened  to 
the  missionary  from  Kalkamazu.  She  left  the  meet- 
ing in  a  state  of  mental  dizziness.  Imagination  was 
not  a  faculty  much  cultivated  in  Timlik,  and  there 
was  to  her  a  pain  in  the  birth-throe  of  unsuspected 
fancies.  The  familiar  road  was  hateful,  and  the  low 
hills,  melting  into  the  darkness,  suffocated  her.  So 
she  reached  home,  and  opened  the  door  into  the  dark 
room  and  lighted  the  lamp  that  stood  on  the  table 
covered  with  a  meagre  supper.  It  was  a  sad  place, 
and  the  dull  green  walls  seemed  to  absorb  and  make 
sickly  the  light.  Bits  of  plaster  had  dropped  out  of 
the  low  ceiling,  and  the  ragged  mats  on  the  bare 
floor  were  a  perpetual  trap  for  the  unwary.  In  a 
rocking  chair  by  the  stove  sat  Mrs.  Blynn.  On  her 
way  to  fetch  a  mug  of  water  out  of  the  supply-pail, 
Odelia  paused  and  looked  at  her  mother,  whose  head 
was  thrown  back  while  her  hands  hung  lifelessly  by 
her  side. 

"  Mother ! "  the  sharp  impatient  young  voice  star- 
tled the  sleeper,  and  she  awoke  in  a  daze. 

"  What's  the  matter,"  she  asked,  struggling  with 
sleep. 

"  I  was  frightened  I     You  looked  as  if — as  if  you 


32  ODELIA   BLYNN. 

were  dead,"  Odelia  replied,  with  frightened  resent- 
ment. 

"  An'  you  was  really  frightened  'bout  me,  Delia  ?  " 

The  girl  nodded,  and  sat  down  and  ate  her  bread 
and  butter  in  silence. 

" Did  you  taste  the  honey,  Delia?  I  bought  it  for 
you.  I  had  a  few  cents  saved  and  I  thought  you'd 
like  it." 

"  Yes,  it's  nice,"  she  replied,  absently,  while  her 
mother  began  to  wash  the  few  dishes,  quite  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course. 

"An'  so  you  was  frightened  for  me,  Delia,"  she 
repeated,  reverting  to  this  unaccustomed  touch  of 
feeling.  Then  she  sat  down  in  her  old  place  and 
took  up  her  work.  *'  It's  a  hard  life  for  you,  child. 
Sometimes  I  think  it  'ud  be  better  for  you  if  I  was 
dead  and  gone,  and  then  I  think  I'm  better'n  none." 

The  clock  over  the  stove  ticked  noisily  in  the  si- 
lence. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you'll  do  when  I'm  gone, 
Delia,  'cept  go  out  to  service,  on'y  you're  so  dreadful 
proud." 

Odelia  looked  at  her  mother  a  moment,  and  then 
she  spoke  in  a  low  voice  : 

"  I  want  to  go  away  as  a  missionary,  mother." 

"  Delia,  you're  not  goin'  to  leave  me,  you're  not 
goin'  to  leave  me,  child ! "  and  the  old  woman 
dragged  herself  forward,  and  laid  her  hand  on  the 
girl's  knees.  "  I've  lost  all  in  this  cruel  world,  don't 
you  leave  me,  too,  Delia." 

"  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  stay  here,  mother.  There's 
nothing  for  me  to  do.  I'm  wasting  my  life  away. 
To-night  I  found  out  my  duty :  it's  to  go  out  into  the 
world  and  to  bring  the  Gospel  to  heathen  men  and 
women.  The  missionary  said  to-night  that  they 
wanted  workers  in  the  field  who'd  give  their  lives  to 


ODELIA   BLYNN.  33 

the  cause.  And  as  I  came  home  I  felt,  all  of  a  sud- 
den, that  Jesus  wants  me  out  there,  and  so  I  must 
go  at  his  call !  "  The  old  woman  rubbed  her  hands 
together  and  at  last  spoke.  "Wait  till  I'm  dead, 
Odelia,  wait  till  I'm  dead,"  and  she  threw  herself 
forward  and  broke  into  sobs. 


IV, 

TIMLIK  always  stood  in  an  attitude  of  conde- 
scending approval  to  self  sacrifice.  It  was  in 
a  spirit  of  stunned  wonder  that  it  heard  of  Odelia 
Blynn's  intention  to  go  out  as  missionary  to  the  Kal- 
kamazu  Islands,  those  islands  which  could  only  be 
reached  by  way  of  Cape  Horn.  The  natives  were 
degraded  and  savage,  wild  beasts  and  earthquakes 
abounded,  and  mail  facilities  were  limited  to  letters 
once  a  year. 

Timlik  rejoiced  over  these  facts,  and  Odelia  rose 
to  an  extraordinary  height  of  popularity ;  even  Mrs; 
Blynn's  being  of  no  account  was  temporarily  for- 
gotten. 

Deacon  Fell  came  himself  to  inquire  into  the  mat- 
ter one  winter  day,  and  for  the  first  time  in  twenty 
years  he  again  crossed  the  threshold.  Mrs.  Blynn 
looked  up  in  an  apathetic  way  as  the  Deacon's  sharp 
red  nose  was  thrust  in  at  the  open  door.  A  shaft  of 
sunlight  lay  across  the  bare  floor  and  the  cat  basked 
in  its  rays,  and  Odelia  stood  at  the  window  with  an 
eloquent  protest  in  her  slim,  flat  back. 

She  turned,  and  both  women  stared  at  the  Deacon, 
who  calmly  sat  down,  opened  a  singular  garment  of 
a  moth  eaten  buffalo  hide,  and  proceeded  to  uncoil 
several  yards  of  comforter  from  his  neck.  Then 
with  one  hand  on  each  knee  and  his  sharp  face  bent 
3 


34  ODELIA   BLYNN. 

forward,  he  said,  "Wal',  Odelia,  air  you  truly  a-goin' 
off  missionarying  to  the  heathen  ?     Now,  do  tell." 

Mrs.  Blynn  paused  in  her  work  as  Odelia  answered, 
shortly,  "  I  want  to  go,  I'm  dying  to." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  ?  "  asked  the  Deacon. 

"  Mother  won't  let  me." 

Deacon  Fell  drew  himself  up  and  his  eyebrows 
rose  in  righteous  astonishment. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  ma'am,  that  you  air  standin' 
in  the  way  of  your  gal's  salvation  ? " 

**  She's  a-goin'  to  wait  till  I'm  dead." 

The  Deacon  stared  at  her,  and  Odelia's  eyes  filled 
with  angry  tears. 

"  The  minister  wrote  to  the  Board  of  Foreign  Mis- 
sions, and  they  said  that  I  was  to  go  to  the  Islands 
as  soon  as  they'd  hear  of  others  going  the  same  way. 
And  now,  when  I  thought  it  settled,  mother  won't 
let  me  go." 

"  Wait  till  I'm  dead,  Delia, — ^you're  dreadful  im 
patient." 

"  Dead  1 "  the  Deacon  cried  in  virtuous  indignation, 
**  it's  jest  them  no  account  folks  that  live  forever." 

It  was  a  remark  in  the  nature  of  a  soliloquy  and 
perhaps  he  did  not  intend  Mrs.  Blynn  to  hear.  She 
paused  in  her  work  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  air  doin',"  he  asked, 
frowning,"  you're  keepin'  Odelia  from  doin'  her  duty." 

" Am  I  ? " 

Then  Odelia  turned  upon  them,  her  sallow  face  all 
aglow. 

"  That's  the  way  she  goes  on,  and  I  can't  stand 
it!  Why  won't  she  let  me  do  my  duty?  You'll 
make  a  wicked  woman  of  me  yet,  mother,"  and  with- 
out another  word  she  ran  out  of  the  house. 

The  Deacon  felt  it  was  time  for  a  serious  word. 

"Mis'  Blynn,"  he  begun,  not  unkindly,  "you  jest 
be  a  reasonable  woman  and  let  her  go.     Ef  the  Lord 


ODELIA   BLYNN.  35 

has  set  her  that  work  to  do,  it  ain't  for  you  to  keep  her 
here.  It'll  be  an  awful  disappointment  for  Timlik  ef 
she  don't  go.  Timlik's  heart  is  jest  set  on  it  and  we 
mean  to  do  the  han'some  thing  by  her.  Now  what'U 
become  of  her  if  you  air  took  ?  She'll  have  to  go  out 
to  service,  an'  you  know  yourself  she's  proud,  dread- 
ful proud." 

"  An'  ain't  she  got  no  work  to  do  here  ?  " 

The  Deacon  resented  the  interruption. 

"  No,"  he  retorted. 

The  old  woman  rose  slowly  and  pointed  to  the 
door.  "  You  hard  man,"  she  said,  "  leave  this  house. 
When  you  come  ta  die  one  day,  all  alone  in  the  great, 
wide  world,  an'  your  children  far  away,  think  of  me, 
Deacon  Fell,  think  of  me," 

"Gracious  sakes,"  the  Deacon  began  pettishly, 
but  there  was  something  in  that  poor  old  face  he 
could  not  resist,  and  he  slunk  out  of  the  house,  drag- 
ging a  yard  or  two  of  dingy  comforter  behind  him. 


V. 

IN  the  meantime  Timlik  rejoiced  over  Odelia  Blynn. 
The  farmers'  wives  sent  her  presents  and  invited 
her  to  tea.  Afterwards  the  neighbors  dropped  in, 
the  best  room  with  the  "two  ply"  was  thrown  open, 
and  here  Odelia  told  all  she  knew  about  Kalkamazu, 
for  the  Board  of  Foreign  Missions  had  sent  her  a  box 
full  of  books  on  the  subject.  So  great  was  her  im- 
portance that  she  was  borrowed  by  the  neighboring 
churches  to  tell  the  story  of  her  future  duties,  and 
the  only  disappointment  was  that  she  did  not  speak 
the  Kalkamazu  language. 

And  yet  the  old  woman  of  no  account  remained 
obdurate.  "  When  I'm  dead  she  can  go,"  she  replied 
to  all  entreaties. 


36  ODELIA   BLYNN. 

In  those  days  the  ladies  of  Timlik  came  often  to 
the  little  house  to  soften  Mrs.  Blynn.  They  were 
gaunt,  sallow  women,  with  sunken  cheeks  and  pain- 
fully perfect  false  teeth,  and  they  coaxed  and  taunted 
her  with  high,  shrill  voices,  to  which  she  opposed  an 
obstinate  silence,  braiding  her  hats  and  chewing. 
All  the  ladies  chewed  some  favorite  substance. 
One  enthusiastic  friend  did  one  day  warn  Odelia  that 
her  mother  was  becoming  mighty  queer  and  light- 
headed like,  and  she  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  she 
didn't  last.  "  Then,"  said  the  good  lady,  tipping  her 
calico  sunbonnet  forward,  for  the  spring  sun  was 
rather  warm,  "  then  there'll  be  no  one  to  keep  you 
from  doin'  your  duty  by  them  poor,  heathen  critters, 
Odelia,"  and  so  departed. 

The  girl  stood  at  the  door,  shading  her  eyes  with 
her  hand,  when  the  minister  came  towards  her  from 
the  village.  It  was  a  sunny  spring  day,  with  a  chill 
in  the  air,  the  clouds  chased  across  the  steel-blue  sky 
and  the  Timberlake  in  the  distance  was  covered  with 
white  caps.  A  soft  green  mist  lay  on  the  woodlands 
as  the  promise  of  coming  summer,  and  a  brook 
among  the  trees  across  the  way,  tumbled  and  frolicked 
down  its  pebbly  bed,  with  a  fresh,  sweet  cadence. 

"  Walk  up  the  hill  with  me,  Odelia,  I  wish  to  speak 
to  you,"  the  minister  called  to  her. 

She  went  towards  him  and  waited  for  him  to  speak, 
for  he  coughed,  and  his  breath  came  short  and  fast. 

"  First,  Odelia,  the  people  want  to  see  you  in  the 
vestry  to-night ;  they  have  a  surprise  in  store  for  you." 

After  all,  she  was  young  and  she  longed  for  what 
is  the  birthright  of  youth,  and  so  her  heart  beat  fast 
and  a  vivid  blush  crept  up  to  her  face  at  the  thought. 
But  something  more  serious  was  to  follow. 

"  I  have  also  had  a  letter  from  the  Board  and  you 
must  decide  within  a  day  if  you  will  go  to  Kalkamazu. 
It  seems  that  a  missionary  and  his  family  are  to  sail 


ODELIA   BLYNN.  37 

next  week  and  they  will  be  glad  to  take  you  along, 
but,  as  there  is  another  applicant  for  the  place,  you 
see  that  you  must  make  up  your  mind.  Of  course 
they  ask  you  first,  as  you  were  the  first  to  apply. 
Good-bye,  Odelia,  don't  fail  at  the  vestry  to-night." 

Odelia  went  on  as  if  in  a  dream,  conscious  of  only 
one  thing :  she  must  decide.  Her  whole  soul  was  on 
fire  with  visions  of  heroic  purpose  and  self  sacrifice, 
and  she  loathed  her  commonplace  life,  with  its  emp- 
tiness and  its  poverty.  "  It  is  my  only  chance  and 
if  I  lose  it,  I  shall  have  to  be  a  servant,"  she  thought, 
in  bitter  revolt. 

How  far  she  had  gone  she  did  not  know,  when 
some  one  called  to  her.  "  Where  be  you  goin', 
Odelia  Blynn  ?  "  and  as  she  turned,  a  shrill,  unnatural 
voice  shrieked,  "To  the  devil,  to  the  devil." 

At  the  words  her  heart  nearly  stopped  beating.  It 
was  a  narrow,  lonely  path  through  a  pine  forest,  in 
which,  on  a  small  clearing,  stood  a  cottage  of  a  couple 
of  rooms,  and  before  the  threshold,  wrapped  in  an 
old  buffalo  robe,  sat  Deacon  Prouty,  while  in  a  tin 
cage,  swinging  from  the  branch  of  a  tree,  hung  a  par- 
rot with  a  scarlet  tail  and  a  cruel  beak. 

This  was  the  Deacon's  home.  At  present  he  was 
under  the  severe  displeasure  of  the  church,  which  he 
bore  with  feelings  regulated  by  rheumatism.  If  that 
was  bad,  the  Deacon  considered  it  wise  to  be  submis- 
sive, but  if  he  felt  well,  then  he  didn't  mean  to  be 
bossed  by  any  one.  To-day  the  ancient  man  felt 
pretty  smart  and  quite  independent  of  religion. 

"  Was  it  he  who  spoke,"  Odelia  asked,  pointing  to 
the  parrot. 

"  Yes,  an'  wa'n't  it  'propriate  ?  I  bought  him  in 
East  Timlik  for  company.  But  he  does  swear  awful. 
Wa'n't  it  'propriate ! "  he  repeated,  blinking  at  the 
girl. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 


38  ODELIA  BLYNN. 

"  Lor',  there  aio't  no  folks  here  who'll  tell  you  the 
truth,  you  poor  critter  !  You  think  you're  goin'  to 
do  your  duty  by  them  unbelieving  heathens  ?  Lor' 
sakes,  you're  goin'  straight  to  the  devil.  Your 
duty  is  to  home  with  your  mother !  You  just  leave 
heathen  preachin'  to  other  folks  an'  you  stay  here 
an'  do  for  her.  I  ain't  spoke  to  you  since  the  day 
you  wanted  to  go  circusin',  I  didn't  tell  on  you 
or  I  guess  they'd  a-talked  to  you  pretty  smart.  So 
I  was  s'rprised  when  I  hear  on  you  a-goin'  to  bring 
religion  to  them  heathen  sinners.  Lor',  Odelia, 
guess  I  know  you  !  You're  jest  dyin'  to  git  away 
from  this  place,  that's  all.  There  ain't  no  religion 
'bout  you  or  you'd  stay  an'  do  your  duty  to  home." 

Odelia  stood  before  him  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot. 
"  Them  folks  is  a  drivin'  of  you  on ;  they  don't  care 
nothin'  what  becomes  of  you  or  your  mother.  Gra- 
cious, it's  wickeder  than  the  circus." 

"  Don't,  don't,  I  won't  hear  you,  you  wicked  man," 
she  cried  at  last,  struggling  for  breath,  and  without 
another  word  she  disappeared  down  the  path  she  had 
come. 

"  Where  be  you  goin',  Odelia  ?  "  the  Deacon  piped 
after  her,  regretting  that  he  had  driven  away  a  chance 
visitor,  but  no  one  answered. 

The  blasphemous  parrot  plumed  himself  and  bit 
the  bars  of  his  cage  and  looked  amazingly  like  the 
Deacon.  Then  he  whistled  a  hideous  tune,  to  which 
the  old  sinner  in  the  buffalo  robe  kept  time  with  his 
head,  with  great  zest  and  enjoyment. 


VJ. 

THE  early  spring  evening  had  crept  on  when  Ode- 
lia returned  home.  It  was  too  early  for  the 
lamps  to  be  lighted  in  the  scattered  cottages,  and  it 
was  too  dark  for  serious  work. 


ODELIA  BLYNN.  39 

The  ploughs  lay  idle  in  the  long  furrows  of  the 
fields,  a  few  farm  laborers  trudged  along  the  road 
homeward,  and  occasionally  a  characteristic  Timlik 
steed  harnessed  to  a  loose  country  wagon,  jolted  past. 

There  was  no  sign  of  life  about  the  little  house  as 
Odelia  approached,  and  her  own  unrest  made  the 
silence  seem  more  oppressive.  The  girl  looked 
about  her  in  vague  surprise  as  she  opened  the  door. 

"  You've  ben  late  comin'  home,  Delia,"  said  her 
mother. 

"  How  nice  you've  fixed  yourself  up,  haven't  you, 
mother." 

There  was  an  expectant  air  of  festivity  in  the  poor 
place.  The  stove  was  newly  blacked  and  the  ragged 
mats  had  disappeared,  and  the  supper  stood  on  the 
table  in  the  best  holiday  china  on  the  best  table- 
cloth. All  trace  of  work  was  put  aside  as  never 
before. 

"  How  real  nice  you  look,  mother,"  Odelia  repeated. 

"I've  finished  my  work,"  she  answered,  looking 
down  at  the  idle  hands  in  her  lap. 

"Why,  mother,  you've  got  on  your  wedding-dress," 
Odelia  said,  with  a  start. 

"Yes,  yes,  my  wedding-dress,"  and  Mrs.  Blynn 
smoothed  it  down  gently.  "  I've  ben  very  happy  in  it, 
Delia.  I  should  like  to  have  it  on  when  I  go,  'cos 
your  father  liked  it.  He  might'n  know  me  if  'twa'n't 
for  that,  for  I'm  a  broken  an'  changed  old  woman." 

"  Don't  speak  so  !  "  Odelia  cried,  with  quick  re- 
sentment ;  *'  it's  putting  on  that  old  thing  makes  you." 

"  I  ain't  wore  it  since  the  year  we  was  married," 
she  went  on,  nevertheless.  "  I  was  nice  enough  look- 
in'  then,  an'  Joshua  liked  it.  Two  shillings  a  yard, 
I  paid  for  it,  an'  mother  said  I  was  crazy  to  put  all 
that  money  in  it  for  a  day's  wear, — but  Joshua  liked 
it,"  and  she  gazed  down  with  faint  pride  at  the  anti- 
quated gown,  with  its  faded  pink  roses. 


40  ODELIA   BLYNN. 

Suddenly  she  looked  up  and  met  Odelia's  troubled 
eyes.  "  The  minister's  ben  here  an'  gone,  an'  he 
spoke  to  me." 

"And  you'll  let  me  go,  mother,"  Odelia  longed  to 
cry,  but  something  forced  her  to  be  silent. 

"  I  told  him  what  I  told  you  all  along.  Now  sit 
down  an'  hev  your  supper." 

But  Odelia  could  not  eat,  and  every  mouthful 
seemed  to  choke  her.  *'  She's  coaxing  me  to  stay," 
she  thought,  and  pushed  her  plate  away.  "  They 
want  to  see  me  at  the  Vestry  to-night,"  she  said  at 
last,  rising,  "  and  guess  I'd  better  go  now." 

At  the  door  she  turned  at  the  faint  sound  of  her 
name  and  a  quivering,  broken  sob. 

"  Odelia !  " 

She  went  back  to  her  mother's  chair  and  looked 
silently  down  at  her. 

"  Odelia,  child,  let  me  kiss  you  before  you  go." 
Involuntarily  she  knelt  down  and  the  white,  trembling 
lips  touched  her  cheek. 

'*  I  loved  you  more'n  you  thought  I  did;  I  jest 
couldn't  live  without  you,  child.     There,  go  now." 

The  door  closed  and  the  soft  spring  breeze  rustled 
faintly  through  the  ghostly  birches  that  leaned  for- 
ward, listening,  forever  listening. 


VII. 

A  SMALL  boy  with  a  red  head  was  on  the  look- 
out for  Odelia  when  she  reached  the  church. 
It  was  a  great  day  for  Timlik,  and  the  small  boy  wel- 
comed her  with  shouts  of  rejoicing.  Deacon  Fell 
followed  her  in  and  gave  her  a  considerate  poke  for- 
ward as  she  looked  about  bewildered.  But  the  min- 
ister came  towards  her  through  the  crowd  and  led 


ODELIA  BLYNN.  4' 

her  to  the  surprise,  which  was  of  a  bulky  nature  and 
temporarily  hidden  under  a  cloth. 

Then  he  held  her  trembling,  cold  hands  and  made 
a  little  speech.  "  The  people  of  Timlik  wish  you  to 
know  how  they  rejoice  in  your  devotion  to  the  call  of 
duty.  They  wish  to  show  you  that  they  appreciate 
your  heroism  in  giving  your  life  for  a  noble  purpose. 
They  desire  to  hold  a  place  in  your  heart  when  you 
are  far  away,  and  they  expect  to  be  very  proud  of 
you,  Odelia  Blynn.  In  testimony  of  their  love  and 
esteem  they  beg  you  to  accept  this  slight  remem- 
brance, with  the  hope  that  in  the  far  distant  land  its 
tones  may  bring  you  comfort." 

So  speaking  the  minister  whisked  the  cover  from 
the  surprise,  which  stood  confessed  in  all  its  glory : 
it  was  a  melodeon.  The  trifling  circumstance  that 
Odelia  could  not  play  did  not  concern  Timlik,  nor 
that  as  luggage  it  might  be  expensive  transportation 
to  Kalkamazu.  Timlik  had  done  itself  credit  and  it 
groaned  approval.  Deacon  Fell  rubbed  his  hands 
for  joy,  for  it  was  he  who  had  bought  the  surprise  in 
East  Timlik  and  received  a  handsome  commission. 

As  for  Odelia,  she  bowed  her  head  over  the  melo- 
deon and  wept  for  joy  and  pride.  '*  You  are  too 
good,"  she  sobbed,  "  and  you  know  I  mayn't  perhaps 
go  after  all,  for  mother  ain't  willing." 

"The  Lord'll  work  a  miracle  for  you,  Odelia," 
said  a  sympathizing  neighbor,  "an'  p'rhaps  He'll 
move  the  obstacle  out  of  your  path." 

"  Anyhow,  Odelia,  you  let  us  know  to-morrow,  sure," 
the  minister  added  in  conclusion. 

Timlik  was  not  foolishly  gallant,  so  after  supper  all 
round  the  folks  dispersed,  and  though  it  was  quite 
late,  no  one  felt  that  Odelia  could  not  go  home  alone. 
She  went  swiftly  up  the  familiar  road.  She  had  never 
before  been  so  happy  or  so  excited. 

Suddenly  a  voice  seemed  to  say,  "  Suppose  she 


42  ODELIA   BLYNN. 

won't  let  you  go,  even  now  ? "  "  The  Lord  will  work 
a  miracle,"  she  cried.     "  But  if  not  ? " 

A  flood  of  angry  thoughts  surged  through  her  brain. 
"  God  forgive  me,"  she  exclaimed  in  sudden  terror. 

A  ray  of  light  streamed  towards  her  through  a 
crack  in  the  green  paper  curtain.  "  Mother's  up, 
still,"  she  thought  in  some  surprise,  "  or  she's  left 
the  light  burning  for  me."  That,  however,  she  had 
never  done  before. 

"  Perhaps  mother's  sick." 

Her  heart  beat  fast  as  she  slowly  opened  the  door  ; 
the  clock  ticked  as  usual,  the  lamp  burned  on  the 
table  and,  the  idea  of  being  frightened ! — there  sat 
her  mother  asleep  in  her  usual  place.  Yes,  asleep. 
Her  head  rested  in  her  hand  and  both  were  supported 
by  the  high  back  and  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

"  Mother,"  Odelia  called,  but  the  quiet  figure  did 
not  stir. 

"Mother!"  she  repeated  sharply  and  touched  her 
shoulder.  "  I  want  to  tell  you  about  the  pleasant 
evening,  mother." 

She  looked  at  her  one  long,  awful  moment,  and 
then  with  a  sudden,  terrible  cry  she  sank  down  on 
the  floor  by  her  side. 

"  Mother,  mother,  speak  to  me,  mother." 

From  between  the  worn  dead  hand  and  the  worn 
dead  cheek  slipped  an  old  glove,  a  man's  glove. 
It  fell  and  touched  the  girl's  head  as  it  lay  in  her 
mother's  lap,  and  she  started  and  shudderea  at  the 
light  touch.  "  It  was  father's,"  she  said,  and  shivered 
as  with  intense  cold. 

The  cat  slipped  in  at  the  open  door  and  chased  a 
slim  flask  about  the  floor,  and  at  the  sound  Odelia 
awoke  out  of  her  stupor,  and,  as  it  dashed  against  her, 
mechanically  she  picked  it  up.  It  had  contained 
laudanum  such  as  is  used  by  country  folks  for  a 
variety  of  ills. 


ODELIA   BLYNN.  43 

"  The  Lord  will  work  a  miracle  and  He'll  remove 
the  obstacle  out  of  your  path." 
"  I  killed  her ! "  Odelia  cried. 

At  last,  with  wonderful  strength,  she  lifted  the 
slender  figure  and  carried  it  to  the  bed  in  the  other 
room,  and  laid  the  glove  once  more  under  the  still 
face.  She  drove  the  cat  out  of  the  house,  closed  the 
door  and  went  down  to  the  village  for  help. 

The  doctor  and  minister  came  back  with  her, 

"  She  took  an  overdose  of  laudanum,"  the  doctor 
said,  and  then  added  with  some  hesitation,  "  I  fear 
she's  been  in  the  habit  of  taking  it  for  some  time 
past." 

As  the  minister  was  leaving  he  paused  on  the 
threshold.  The  faint  streak  of  coming  dawn  broke 
in  the  east,  and  the  stars  were  fading  out  of  the  sky. 
A  song-sparrow  thrilled  the  silence  with  a  carol  of 
joy,  and  in  the  distance  an  early  cock  crowed  loud 
and  long. 

"  Odelia,"  said  the  minister,  "  now  you'll  be  ready 
to  start  next  week,  for  there's  nothing  to  prevent 
your  doing  your  duty,"  he  added,  kindly. 

"  Duty,"  she  repeated.  Her  lips  were  parched  as 
if  with  fever.  "  That  wasn't  my  duty.  It  ain't  such 
as  me  ought  to  go." 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise ;  he  did  not  under- 
stand. 

"  Tell  them  I  can't,"  she  cried,  in  a  passion  of  re- 
nunciation. 

"  You  are  doing  wrong,  Odelia." 

He  watched  the  struggle  in  her  down-bent  face. 
Then  she  spoke. 

"  It  ain't  wrong,  it's  right." 

"  How  will  you  earn  your  living  now  that  your 
mother's  gone  ? "  he  asked,  with  cold  disapproval. 


44  ODELIA   BLYNN. 

She  turned  from  him.  Her  voice  was  hard  but 
there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  shall  go  out  to  service,"  she  said. 

Odelia  closed  the  door  and  the  minister  walked 
down  the  road  lost  in  thought,  and  in  the  east  broke 
forth  the  glory  of  the  morning. 


THE  HEART  STORY  OF  MISS  JACK. 


I. 

ONLY  the  rich  and  great  ever  went  to  the  Pennock 
Shoals.  There  were  a  few  cottages  on  the  island 
where  the  more  exclusive  lived  in  fashionable  and 
expensive  discomfort ;  the  rest  were  content  with  its 
single  hotel. 

Nobody  ever  did  anything  at  the  Pennock  Shoals, 
but  everybody  was  immensely  respectable.  Indeed, 
the  Pennock  amusement  was  to  discover  if  any  one 
failed  to  reach  this  supreme  standard  of  respecta- 
bility. 

In  this  desirable  summer  resort  Mrs.  Pendexter 
owned  a  cottage.  Rumor  cruelly  declared  that  this 
had  helped  to  make  the  lamented  Mr.  Pendexter  pos- 
sible as  a  husband. 

Mr.  Beresford,  strolling  from  the  Pennock  hotel 
across  the  lawn  to  Mrs.  Pendexter's  desirable  cottage, 
saw  before  him,  as  he  had  seen  for  three  weeks  past, 
a  queer  little  house  perched  on  a  rock,  a  flower- 
garden,  that  flaunted  its  gold  and  scarlet  against  the 
blue  sky,  and  below,  beyond  the  rocks  of  the  island, 
the  great  sea,  and  in  the  distance  white  sails  mirror- 
ing the  sunlight. 

Mr.  Beresford  was  hardly  conscious  of  all  this 
beauty,  but  he  would  have  felt  its  absence.  The  first 
time  he  had  called  on  Mrs.  Pendexter  he  was  greeted, 
on  entering  the  room,  by  a  solitary  occupant  two  feet 

(45) 


46         THE   HEART  STORY  OF  MISS  JACK. 

high,  with  a  small  fat  body  squeezed  in  a  red  jersey ; 
impertinence  was  betrayed  in  his  turned-up  nose,  and 
cunning  in  his  black  eyes. 

"  What's  'oo  here  for  ?  "  this  apparition  demanded. 

"  I  came  to  see  your  mother,  my  little  man,"  young 
Beresford  replied  engagingly,  trying  to  lay  a  friendly 
hand  on  the  imp. 

"  I  ain't  a  little  man,  I'se  a  boy.  You  go  home  ; 
she  don't  like  you ;  she  said  so  to  Jacky.  I  heard 
her,  — I  did,"  and  young  Adolphus  Pendexter  danced 
a  dance  of  joy. 

"  O  you  bad  boy  !  "  a  gentle,  feminine  voice  cried  ; 
but  the  white  hand  that  grasped  the  jersey  from  be- 
hind was  firm,  and  Adolphus  was  carried  out  in  dis- 
grace. 

"  He  tells  the  most  dreadful  lies,"  Mrs.  Pendexter 
remarked  composedly,  sinking  into  her  chair ;  "  he's 
a  Pendexter  all  over." 

Mr,  Beresford  stroked  his  dark  mustache,  and  pon- 
dered in  some  perplexity  on  the  infant  Pendexter,  as 
he  approached  the  cottage. 

Mr.  Robert  Beresford  had  a  certain  charm  for 
which  he  was  not  responsible, — it  was  inborn.  He 
would  look  intently  in  your  eyes,  if  you  were  a  woman, 
and  somehow  you  were  sure  you  were  all  the  world 
to  him  ;  at  the  same  time  you  became  suddenly  con- 
scious of  any  short-comings  in  your  gown.  If  you 
were  a  man  Mr.  Beresford  met  you  on  the  equality 
of  common  sense,  and  you  respected  him. 

He  went  on  his  smiling,  conquering  way  through 
the  world  till  he  met  Mrs.  Pendexter.  For  once  his 
weapons  failed  him,  and  in  his  new  earnestness  Mr. 
Beresford  even  ceased  to  smile. 

He  had  once  solemnly  vowed  never  to  fall  in  love, 
at  least  never  to  marry  a  widow,  especially  a  widow 
with  a  child.  When  he  could  so  far  separate  his  love 
for  the  fair  sex  in  general  to  concentrate  it  on  one 


THE  HEART  STORY   OF  MISS  JACK.         +7 

individual  in  particular,  it  was  always  for  a  theoreti- 
cal **  young  thing,"  whose  mental  and  moral  educa- 
tion he  meant  to  complete.  With  human  inconsis- 
tency he  had  not  only  fallen  in  love  with  a  widow, 
but  a  widow  with  a  dreadful  child.  Far  from  being 
a  young  thing,  whose  education  was  to  be  his  care, 
she  really  made  him,  Robert  Beresford,  feel  like  a 
raw  school-boy. 

The  afternoon  sun  swept  through  the  low  windows 
of  Mrs.  Pendexter's  cottage,  and  came  in,  like  Mr. 
Beresford,  across  the  veranda. 

The  veranda  was  curtained  by  a  tangle  of  delicate 
vines,  that  swayed  in  the  sea-breeze,  sweeping  across 
the  summer  garden,  with  its  blaze  of  flowers,  and 
beyond  their  beauty  lay  the  endless  stretch  of  sea, 
glittering  in  the  sun.  It  also  fell  aross  Mr.  Virginius 
Chick.  Mr.  Virginius  Chick  was  an  ancient  ruin, 
whom  Beresford  hardly  counted,  for  he  seemed  to 
bask,  in  a  grandfatherly  way,  in  Mrs,  Pendexter's 
light.  Mr,  Chick  would  never  see  seventy-five  again  ; 
he  looked  like  a  perambulating  champagne  bottle  ; 
he  had  a  wheeze,  a  red  face,  narrow  forehead,  and 
triple  chin,  and  he  was  the  embodiment  of  money. 
The  sunlight  fell  across  Mrs.  Pendexter,  a  picture  of 
summer  elegance  and  languor,  in  a  cloudy  white 
gown,  that  rippled  and  fell  about  her,  and  at  sight  of 
this  creation  of  white  lace  and  coquettish  knots  of 
ribbon,  Mr.  Beresford  started  visibly. 

Mrs.  Pendexter  was  aware  of  the  start,  and  a  pink 
flush  touched  her  delicate  face.  There  was  an  eager 
eloquence  in  Beresford's  look,  quite  out  of  place  in 
the  presence  of  Mr.  Chick.  To  this  glance  Mrs.  Pen- 
dexter opposed  two  dovelike  eyes,  full  of  innocence 
and  entreaty,  and  so  warded  off  a  scene  which  would 
have  been  highly  objectionable ;  for  Mr.  Virginius 
Chick  sat  on  the  corner  of  the  sofa,  with  a  scarlet 


48         THE   HEART   STORY   OF   MISS  JACK. 

face,  an  agitated  and  asthmatic  wheeze,  and  jealous 
eyes  that  were  hardly  grandfatherly. 

Mrs.  Pendexter  did  not  carry  her  heart  on  her 
sleeve ;  indeed,  it  was  rumored  that  the  departed 
Pendexter  had  doubted  the  existence  of  this  neces- 
sary organ.  Yet  he  had  no  reason  to  complain,  as 
Mrs.  Pendexter  mourned  for  him  in  garments  that 
reflected  great  credit  on  his  memory,  and  the  greatest 
on  her  taste.  Perhaps  it  was  the  exquisite  decorum 
with  which  Mrs.  Pendexter  mourned  for  Mr.  Pendex- 
ter that,  for  a  moment,  chilled  Bob  Beresford. 

The  very  day  before  this  one  he  had  said  to  her, 
as  she  stood,  a  slender  figure,  clad  in  the  gloomiest 
of  crape,  in  her  garden,  amid  the  glory  of  nastur- 
tiums, marigolds,  and  poppies  that  clung  about  her, 
"  If  you  cared  so  little  for  him,  why  will  you  persist 
in  wearing  that  dismal  black  and  those  ghastly  long 
veils?" 

"  It  is  becoming ;  besides,  it  is  my  only  fortress  of 
defence,"  she  answered,  with  some  amusement.  "  I 
know  five  men  who  are  only  waiting  to  see  me  in 
colors,  to  honor  me  with  a  declaration.  I  am  simply 
warding  them  off." 

"  May  I  ask  if  you  do  me  the  honor  of  counting 
me  among  them  ? "  Mr.  Beresford  demanded,  with 
amazing  sang-froid. 

"  Do  you  really  think  me  guilty  of  such  presump- 
tion ?  "  and  she  turned  to  pass  up  the  narrow  path. 

"  Stay,"  he  cried,  with  forced  composure.  "  If  I 
ever  see  you  wear  a  dress  of  another  color  than 
black,  it  will  be  a  sign  of  capitulation  to  some  one  ?  " 

For  a  moment  she  was  silent,  standing  with  her 
graceful  head  down-bent  over  the  great  bunch  of 
poppies  she  held,  quite  aware  of  the  charming  picture 
she  made  ;  then  she  looked  up  :  "I  shall  have  been 
conquered,"  she  answered  with  a  smile,  as  she  passed 
into  the  house. 


THE   HEART   STORY   OF  MISS   JACK.        49 

Mr.  Beresford,  standing  beside  Mrs.  Pendexter's 
chair,  thought  of  that  scene  of  yesterday,  as  his  eager 
eyes  rested  on  her  white  laces  and  embroideries. 
He  hardly  looked  torn  by  hope  and  fear  and  jealousy, 
as  he  stood  before  her,  hat  in  hand ;  and  yet  he  was 
so. 

Perhaps  Mrs.  Pendexter  recognized  an  emotion 
in  his  intent  gaze  that  needed  a  safety-valve.  "  I 
think,"  she  said,  dexterously  applying  the  valve,  "I 
think  that  as  Miss  Jack  cannot  have  been  baked  in 
the  Pennock  Ovens,  she  must  have  been  drowned 
there.  Mr.  Beresford,  pray  go  and  see,  and  please 
bring  her  back  alive.  Miss  Jack  is  the  first  gover- 
ness"— and  Mrs.  Pendexter  turned  to  Mr.  Chick 
with  this  explanation — "who  has  staid  with  Adol- 
phus  more  than  a  week.  Johnny  took  Adolphus  and 
Miss  Jack  out  rowing  this  noon,  and  they  left  her  in 
the  Ovens  to  cool,  and  forgot  all  about  her." 

"  So  you  insist  on  making  a  hero  of  me  ?  "  Beres- 
ford asked,  lingering. 

"  I  can  do  many  things,"  Mrs.  Pendexter  answered, 
with  a  fine  smile,  **  but  I  am  not  capable  of  that." 

Mr.  Beresford  turned  away  with  a  feeling  of  impo- 
tent passion  that  wrecked  on  her  repose.  She  was 
about  his  own  age,  and  yet  she  was  vastly  older. 
He  rebelled  against  her,  protested  against  her,  and 
was  unaffectedly  miserable  unless  he  sat  in  a  certain 
wicker  chair,  in  that  charming  room,  watching  her 
delicate  face,  and  even  willing  (Heaven  help  him  !) 
to  make  a  truce  for  her  sake  with  young  Adolphus, 
who  at  the  age  of  five  seemed  to  possess  a  fund  of 
infantile  wickedness  sufficient  for  fifty. 

Beresford  was  hardly  blind,  and  he  called  himself 
a  confounded  fool  for  being  so  at  the  mercy  of  a 
woman.  Yet,  as  he  stepped  into  Mrs.  Pendexter's 
flower-garden,  he  knew  that  all  his  happiness  was 
bound  up  in  the  mystery  of  a  snow-white  gown. 
4 


50         THE   HEART   STORY   OF  MISS  JACK. 

Instead  of  receiving  an  explanation  he  was  sent 
to  the  Pennock  Ovens  to  rescue  Miss  Jack.  Miss 
Jack  !     What  did  he  care  for  Miss  Jack  ? 

At  the  thought  he  stumbled  against  another  indi- 
vidual who  did  not  care  for  Miss  Jack.  It  was  Adol- 
phus,  rolling  in  the  gravel. 

The  infant  made  a  hideous  face  at  Beresford, 
turned  a  somersault,  leaped  to  his  feet,  and,  placing 
himself  in  a  sparring  attitude  towards  the  visitor, 
cried,  with  undisguised  joy :  "  Jack's  drowned ! 
Johnny  'n  me  left  her  in  the  cave  a-purpose." 

Yes,  poor  Beresford  would  even  take  this  imp  into 
the  bargain,  if  a  certain  woman  would  only — 

He  tried  to  pass,  with  a  smile  on  his  face,  expressive 
of  artificial  pleasure  at  sight  of  young  Adolphus, 
when  he  heard  the  same  shrill  voice  shriek  after 
him : — 

"  Chick  says  you  want  to  be  my  pa ;  you  sha'n't  be 
my  pa !  you  sha'n't ! " 

"  Confound  Chick's  impertinence !  "  Beresford 
thought,  in  a  white  rage ;  yet  what  could  he  say  ? 
He  did  not  stop  to  argue  with  Adolphus.  Perhaps 
his  retreat  was  ignominious.  "  It  may  yet  be  my 
privilege,"  he  reflected,  with  grim  satisfaction,  "  to 
thrash  the  Pendexter  character  out  of  that  boy." 

Five  minutes  later  Mrs.  Pendexter,  who  had  trailed 
her  laces  into  the  garden,  could  see  the  strong,  steady 
stroke  of  his  oars  as  Beresford  rowed  away  from  the 
wharf  to  the  "  Ovens,"  The  "  Pennock  Ovens  "  were 
two  caves,  cut  off  from  the  island  at  high  tide ;  at 
low  tide  they  were  pleasant  loitering-places ;  but 
they  were  dangerous  when  the  water  rose  in  their 
depths  with  a  sweep  and  roar  that  were  deafening. 

Mrs.  Pendexter  followed  the  boat  with  absent 
eyes,  and  she  lifted  them  in  a  meditative  way  to  Mr. 
Chick,  who  had  followed  her. 

"  Youth,"  Mr.  Chick  remarked,  as  if  in  answer  to 


THE  HEART  STORY  OF  MISS  JACK.         $1 

some  unasked  question,  and  lifting  his  white  eye-  j 
brows  high  on  his  scarlet  forehead, — "  youth  is  desir- 
able, but  it  is  fleeting ;  more  fleeting,"  he  added, 
impressively,  "than" — "money."  Mrs.  Pendexter 
finished  the  sentence  with  a  gracious  smile,  and 
stooped  to  pick  a  pansy  for  Mr.  Chick's  buttonhole. 


II. 

THE  truth  is  that  Bob  Beresford  really  did  save 
Miss  Jack's  life.  Miss  Jack  had  retreated  into 
the  cave  before  the  Alantic  Ocean,  and  was  perched 
on  a  rock  over  which  the  water  was  already  dashing 
and  surging, when  Bob  swam  in, — it  was  the  only  way 
in  which  he  could  reach  her. 

Miss  Jack  prided  herself  on  her  presence  of  mind, 
so  she  did  not  faint  till  Bob,  having  rescued  her,  and 
lifted  her  into  his  boat,  she  could  do  so  and  not  be 
in  the  way. 

Mr.  Beresford  was  far  from  feeling  like  a  hero; 
he  had,  indeed,  an  uneasy  sense  that  between  them 
they  cut  a  ridiculous  figure.  Being  occupied  with 
rowing  he  could  only  look  helplessly  at  Miss  Jack's 
forlorn  figure  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  He  had  i 
not  very  poetic  vision  of  a  black  alpaca  gown,  thai 
shed  a  stream  of  water  over  a  scant  bal moral  skirt, 
and  two  congress  gaiters.  Miss  Jack's  black  hat 
had  slipped  to  the  back  of  her  head,  and  a  tiny 
stream  of  blackened  water  was  trickling  down  her 
face.  It  was  either  this  reviving  fluid  or  Mr.  Beres- 
ford's  absently  intent  gaze  that  acted  as  restorer,  for 
life  seemed  suddenly  to  come  back  to  her,  and,  with 
a  gasp.  Miss  Jack  sat  bolt  upright. 

She  glanced  up  and  down  and  sideways,  and  then 
she  looked  at  Mr,  Beresford.  At  sight  of  his  intent, 
handsome   face,  Miss  Jack  drew  her   alpaca  skirt 


52         THE   HEART   STORY   OF   MISS  JACK. 

over  her  congress  gaiters  and  blushed  ;  it  was  her  first 
acknowledgment  of  feminine  weakness. 

"  You  have  saved  my  life,  sir,"  she  said  with  sur- 
prising stiffness ;  but  there  was  a  curious  trembling 
in  her  hands  as  they  smoothed  her  drenched  skirts. 

"  It  really  was  nothing,"  Mr.  Beresford  hastened 
to  reply,  filled  with  a  vague  alarm  that  this  young 
person  might  bore  him  with  gratitude.  "  I  only  hope 
that  you  will  not  take  cold.  Here  we  are  at  the 
wharf.  Take  care,  Miss  Jack.  Let  me  help  you  up 
the  steps.  By  George  !  the  inhabitants  have  turned 
out  en  masse.'^ 

Sure  enough  the  little  wharf  was  full  of  gayly 
dressed  people,  who  made  way  for  the  dripping  hero 
and  heroine  to  pass,  and,  while  they  stared  at  them 
to  their  hearts'  content,  made  audible  and  uncompli- 
mentary remarks.  Popular  curiosity  but  not  popular 
enthusiasm  was  aroused ;  the  heroine  was  only  Miss 
Jack,  young  Adolphus's  governess,  and  young  Adol- 
phus  took  it  very  ill  indeed,  that  she  had  not  chosen 
to  be  drowned.  Even  Beresford  felt  how  different 
it  would  have  been  had  he  had  the  inexpressible 
bliss  of  rescuing  Mrs.  Pendexter  from  a  watery  grave. 
He  would  not  have  walked  silently  beside  her,  only 
intent  to  get  her  off  his  hands.     Ah,  no  ! 

They  reached  Mrs.  Pendexter's  flower-garden  and 
Beresford  opened  the  gate. 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  Miss  Jack  began,  with 
a  gasp,  looking  with  painful  shyness  into  his  politely 
attentive  face. 

"I — I  am  sorry  that  you  got  so  wet  only  for  me," 
she  continued,  with  humility.  "  I  am  afraid  that 
your  clothes  are  quite  ruined;"  and  she  looked  dis- 
consolately at  Mr.  Beresford's  dripping  garments. 
"  Would  you  let  me  " — 

"  What  ? "  Beresford  demanded  with  chilling  cour- 
tesy. 


THE   HEART   STORY   OF  MISS   JACK.         53 

"  Oh,  dear  me !  nothing !  "  Miss  Jack  cried  in  terror, 
clutched  her  bedraggled  skirts,  and  fled  into  the 
house. 

What  indeed  had  she  rashly  wished  to  offer  this 
elegant  man  ? 

"I  couldn't  afford  to  buy  him  a  new  suit  of 
clothes,"  she  confessed  to  herself  (Miss  Jack  was 
from  Maine,  and  painfully  conscientious),  "but  I  did 
want  to  offer  to  have  them  cleansed.  I  didn't  dare, 
though." 

Mrs.  Pendexter  had  a  surface  geniality,  which  was 
skin  deep.  That  peculiar  virtue  came  out  in  full 
strength  as  Miss  Jack,  that  same  evening,  combed 
out,  as  usual,  Mrs.  Pendexter's  wavy  brown  hair. 

Mrs.  Pendexter  examined  in  the  mirror  before  her, 
with  silent  amusement,  the  two  figures  reflected.  Her 
own  rounded  form,  half  hidden,  half  revealed  by  the 
laces  and  embroideries  of  her  loose  wrapper,  while 
the  dusky  hair  falling  over  her  shoulders  shadowed 
her  lovely  face.  In  curious  contrast  this  to  the  awk- 
ward and  angular  figure  behind  her. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  twenty-eight  years  of  life 
Miss  Jack  was  so  weak  as  to  be  absent-minded.  Miss 
Jack  was  not  an  object  of  pity, — far  from  it, — she 
was  a  person  who  carried  about  with  her  a  private 
pedestal,  upon  which  she  stood,  not  to  be  worshiped, 
but  to  see  over  people's  heads.  To-day  she  had 
ascended  this  height  to  judge  of  Mr.  Beresford,  and 
failed.  For  the  first  time  Miss  Jack  looked  up  to 
some  one. 

It  would  have  petrified  Mrs.  Pendexter  to  know 
that  Miss  Jack,  whom  she  scorned  as  an  ill-dressed 
woman,  should  stand  towards  her  in  an  attitude  of 
criticism  as  harsh  as  the  ancient  Puritan  employed 
towards  the  dreaded  Scarlet  Woman. 

Miss  Jack  came  from  Maine,  as  we  have  said,  and 


54         THE   HEART   STORY   OF  MISS  JACK. 

there  was,  as  it  were,  an  icy  precipitate  in  her  atmos- 
phere, oddly  in  harmony  with  her  angular  move- 
ments, the  puritanic  rigidity  of  her  mind,  and  her 
sallow  face,  from  which  the  rather  sparse  sandy  haii 
was  drawn  back  with  uncompromising  harshness. 

Miss  Jack  was  not  without  an  aim  in  life ;  she 
hoped  some  day  to  be  sent  to  a  far-off  country,  there 
to  teach  those  religious  precepts  inculcated  in  the 
stern  white  meetinghouse  of  her  native  village,  where 
once  in  a  while  a  religious  frenzy  shook  the  people 
out  of  the  vegetating  quiet  of  their  lives.  If  the 
subject  of  marriage  had  ever  entered  Miss  Jack's 
mind  it  was  not  in  connection  with  love,  but  simply 
as  a  greater  convenience  in  the  missionary  enterprise. 
Love  she  considered  as  a  kind  of  insanity,  while 
feminine  graces  were  the  invention  of  one  in  whom 
she  firmly  believed. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Miss  Jack  ? "  Mrs. 
Pendexter  demanded,  suddenly,  looking  at  the  re- 
flected face. 

Miss  Jack  started,  gave  a  sharp  pull  at  Mrs.  Pen- 
dexter's  hair,  dropped  the  ivory  brush,  and  remained 
silent. 

What  if  that  frivolous  woman  could  look  into  her 
soul !  She  shuddered  as  one  who  has  been  detected 
in  some  crime,  remembering  those  thoughts,  and  a 
traitorous  glow  swept  across  her  face.  In  her  sinful 
mind  she  had  lived  over  once  more  the  scenes  of 
the  afternoon.  Once  more  she.  Miss  Jack,  felt  her- 
self upborne  through  the  surging  water  by  the  strong 
arms  of  a  man,  and  against  her  heart  she  again  felt 
the  beating  of  his.  All  this  as  she  stood  impassible 
behind  Mrs.  Pendexter's  chair. 

"  Miss  Jack,  have  you  ever  been  in  love  ? "  her  tor- 
mentor asked. 

"No,"  Miss  Jack  whispered  more  than  said,  in  a 
daze   of  astonishment   at  herself.      Yesterday   she 


THE   HEART   STORY   OF  MISS   JACK.         55 

would  have  resented  so  impertinent  a  question,  would 
have  mounted  her  pedestal  and  discoursed,  yea,  even 
unto  Mrs.  Pendexter. 

*'  You  have  had  quite  a  romance  to-day,"  that  lady 
said,  rising,  and  turning  her  surface  geniality  in  a 
cool  glow  on  Miss  Jack.  "  Romances  often  have  a 
pleasant  ending,"  she  concluded,  and  smiled  Miss 
Jack  out  of  the  room  with  a  queer  smile. 

"  To  think  that  piece  of  wood  is  a  woman.  It 
must  be  very  convenient  to  have  no  feeling,"  Mrs. 
Pendexter  pondered,  as  one  overburdened  with  too 
much.  She  paused  to  listen,  for  the  house  door  be- 
low was  softly  opened.  It  was  only  Miss  Jack,  who 
had  stepped  on  the  deserted  veranda.  The  moon- 
light lay  across  the  sea  over  which  she  had  rowed 
that  afternoon ;  and  Miss  Jack,  rowing  once  more 
over  the  sea  in  her  thoughts,  sighed  wearily.  It 
marked  an  era  in  her  life.  ' 

What  had  Mrs.  Pendexter  meant  by  romance  and 
love  .'•  They  were  not  for  her.  And  yet,  why  not  ? 
she  asked  herself,  with  something  like  resentment 
against  Fate.  Was  she  not  a  woman  ?  Had  she  not 
a  heart  to  love  ?  She  was  a  better  woman  than  that 
frivolous  creature  upstairs.  She  was  more  intelli- 
gent ;  and  yet — 

She  looked  down  with  some  scorn  at  the  scant 
folds  of  her  ill-fitting  gown.  That  happiness  should 
hang  on  the  fit  of  a  gown  ! 

"  If  I  were  as  well  dressed  as  Mrs.  Pendexter  I 
could  make  him  like  me,"  she  concluded,  with  femi- 
nine injustice.  Because  she  saw  through  Mrs.  Pen- 
dexter's  wiles  and  falsities.  Miss  Jack  only  gave  her 
credit  for  fine  gowns.  Miss  Jack  went  upstairs,  and 
by  the  light  of  a  candle  she  examined  her  scanty 
wardrobe ;  and  that  night — Heaven  save  her  weak- 
ness ! — Miss  Jack  sacrificed  her  conscience  to  vanity, 
and  put  her  scanty  front  locks  in  curl-papers. 


56         THE   HEART  STORY  OF  MISS  JACK. 


III. 

EVERY  morning  Miss  Jack  and  Adolphus  battled 
with  the  alphabet  and  the  nine  figures.  From 
these  daily  scenes  of  warfare  Miss  Jack  retired  with 
an  unbecoming  flush  on  her  tired  face,  while  the 
button  of  her  linen  collar  invariably  worked  round 
to  her  right  ear  in  these  educational  struggles. 

The  morning  after  her  rescue  Adolphus  looked  up 
at  her  with  a  glance  which  made  Miss  Jack  tremble. 

"  What's  those  ?  "  he  demanded  peremptorily, 
pointing  to  a  couple  of  paper  bunches  on  Miss  Jack's 
forehead. 

"  It's — it's  nothing  I "  and  Miss  Jack  surreptitiously 
removed  the  curl-papers. 

"  How  funny  you  look  !  "  j'oung  Adolphus  then  re- 
marked, frankly. 

Something  that  blurred  her  gaze  rose  to  Miss 
Jack's  eyes,  and  she  coughed  to  clear  her  throat. 

What  if  Mr.  Beresford  should  think  she  looked 
funny !  Listening  to  the  thrilling  narrative  of  A  B  C, 
she  tried  to  picture  to  herself  what  change  combing 
out  would  make  in  her  appearance. 

That  afternoon  Miss  Jack  came  down  in  Mrs.  Pen- 
dexter's  parlor  with  an  odd,  sparse  fuzz  about  her 
face,  and  at  her  throat  was  pinned  an  awkward  knot 
of  ribbon,  that  seemed  to  make  her  a  trifle  plainer 
than  before. 

Mr.  Chick  sat  in  his  usual  corner,  wheezing.  Mrs. 
Pendexter,  in  another  white  gown,  the  very  summit 
and  crown  of  expensive  simplicity,  raised  her  eye- 
brows with  languid  surprise  at  Miss  Jack's  transfor- 
mation. 

"  Pray  sit  down,  Miss  Jack,"  she  said,  stifling  a 
yawn,  and  tired  to  death  of  Mr.  Chick's  society. 

Miss  Jack,  who  had  never  been  so  honored  before, 


THE  HEART  STORY  OF  MISS  JACK.         57 

sat  stiffly  down  on  the  stiffest  chair  in  the  room, 
which  stood  by  the  open  door,  and,  half  hidden  by  a 
screen,  she  added  her  silence  to  that  other  silence  to 
such  good  purpose  that  Mr.  Virginius  Chick  rose  to 
his  gouty  feet  and  took  his  departure. 

Mrs.  Pendexter  settled  herself  more  easily  in  her 
low  chair,  and  became  interested  in  a  book  whose 
binding  was  in  harmony  with  her  dress.  Presently 
the  garden-gate  swung  open,  and  some  one  strolled 
up  the  garden-walk,  crossed  the  veranda,  and  stood 
in  the  doorway.  It  was  Mr.  Beresford.  He  looked 
around  the  screen  and  became  aware  of  Miss  Jack. 

"  You,  Miss  Jack  ?     How  do  you  do  ?  " 

A  delicious  thrill  crept  up  Miss  Jack's  spine,  and 
her  heart  beat  very  fast.  He  absolutely  looked  down 
into  her  face  as  he  looked  in  the  faces  of  other 
women.  For  even  she,  Miss  Jack,  knew  his  ways ! 
Perhaps,  she  thought  wildly,  perhaps  she  did  look 
nice  after  all,  and  the  little  fuzz  and  the  little  bow 
were  not  without  success. 

"  Now  he  will  go,"  she  thought,  with  all  her  soul  in 
her  eyes  and  a  trembling  of  her  pale  lips.  "  He  will 
go  to  that  other  woman,  who  is  but  a  form  for  fineries 
and  who  has  neither  heart  nor  soul." 

So  thought  Miss  Jack  while  Beresford  still  spoke 
to  her, — spoke  to  her  with  wonderful  earnestness, 
laying  aside  the  artificial  homage  that  characterized 
his  manner  to  women.  But  in  her  pain  and  joy  she 
did  not  hear  a  word  he  uttered. 

Still  Mr.  Beresford  did  not  go.  She  heard  instead 
the  delicate  rustle  of  a  gown,  there  was  the  faintest 
suggestion  of  passing  violets,  and  Mrs.  Pendexter 
had  left  the  room.  Miss  Jack  was  alone  with  the 
man  who,  like  a  modern  god,  had  awakened  in  her 
soul  the  woman. 

She  sat  before  him  with  her  thin  hands  clasped 


$8         THE   HEART   STORY   OF  MISS  JACK. 

cruelly,  and  with  down-bent  face.  No,  she  could  not 
trust  herself  to  gaze  into  those  deep,  gray  eyes. 

"  Do  you  know.  Miss  Jack,  how  I  have  watched 
you  ? "  Beresford  broke  the  silence. 

"  No."  Miss  Jack's  lips  formed  the  word,  but  her 
voice  failed  her. 

Watched  her  ?  What  could  he  mean  ?  What  pos- 
sible interest  could  he  have  in  watching  her? 

Mr.  Beresford  drew  a  chair  up,  and  sitting  down, 
looked  quietly  into  her  face. 

"  You  have  a  quality  which  is  not  so  common  with 
women  as  men  suppose ;  you  have  such  lovely  pa- 
tience. Miss  Jack." 

"  Patience  !  "  she  repeated,  and  raised  her  eyes  to 
his,  perplexed. 

"I  have  sat  here  so  often  with  Mrs.  Pendexter, 
and  admired  your  unwearied  kindness  to  her  boy, 
spoiled  and  ill-behaved  as  he  is." 

"  I  love  children,  sir ;  it  is  no  virtue  in  me." 

"  The  man  you  marry  will  be  very  fortunate,"  Mr. 
Beresford  continued,  gravely ;  "  such  sweet  patience 
in  a  wife  is  the  highest  virtue ;  it  is  strength  in  mis- 
fortune." 

"  I  shall  never  marry,"  Miss  Jack  replied,  with  a 
catch  in  her  breath,  looking  at  him  with  troubled 
eyes.     "  I  fear  you  are  laughing  at  me,  sir." 

"  Laughing  at  you  !  " 

He  was  so  evidently  hurt  that  she  hastened  to  say 
to  him,  with  lips  that  would  tremble : — 

"  You  say  such  very  kind  things  to  all  ladies, — I 
— I  could  not  help  noticing." 

"  So  you  have  been  watching  me  in  turn,  Miss 
Jack! "  he  said,  smiling.  Then  he  rose,  and  Miss 
Jack's  heart  beat  with  coming  pain :  now  he  would 
certainly  leave  her. 

She  looked  wistfully  into  the  garden,  where  two 
humming-birds  were   playing   hide-and-seek   in   the 


THE  HEART  STORY   OF  MISS  JACK.         59 

very  hearts  of  the  flowers,  and  the  sun  shone  as  never 
the  sun  shone  before. 

"  Will  you  come  into  the  garden  with  me  ? "  Mr. 
fBeresford  asked.  "  It  seems  a  sin  to  stay  in  the 
house  this  beautiful  summer  day." 

A  look  of  such  delight  swept  over  her  face  that  Mr. 
Beresford  smiled  in  answer. 

"  Do  you  know  how  lovely  you  can  look  ? "  he 
asked,  in  frank  wonder.  "  You  will  pardon  me  for 
saying  so,  but  surely  it  is  not  the  most  beautiful 
women  who  reach  the  perfection  of  beauty." 

This  to  her,  Miss  Jack  !     What  could  he  mean  ? 

Taking  her  hat  she  followed  him  into  the  garden, 
and  watched  him  breathlessly  as  he  stooped  and 
gathered  a  great  handful  of  forget-me-nots,  blue  as 
the  sky  above  them.  He  was  to  her  the  embodiment 
of  manly  strength  and  beauty.  He  had  come  into 
her  barren  life  as  the  sun  shines  through  prison-bars, 
and  she  was  grateful. 

Perhaps  he  read  her  soul  in  her  eyes ;  it  was  not 
hard,  for  the  soul  was  a  very  simple  one. 

"  Miss  Jack,  will  you  take  these  flowers,  and  wear 
them  for  my  sake  ?  " 

She  took  them  awkwardly  enough,  and  tried  to 
fasten  them  in  her  gown  as  she  had  seen  Mrs.  Pen- 
dexter  do. 

"I  am  so  very  awkward,"  she  said,  wistfully,  as 
some  of  the  flowers  fell  to  the  ground  in  her  struggles. 
"  Mrs.  Pendexter  is  so — so  graceful." 

"  You  are  one  person  and  Mrs.  Pendexter  is  an- 
other. I  would  not  wish  you  to  be  like  Mrs.  Pendex- 
ter," he  said,  gently. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  asked  in  surprise. 

"  Is  the  beauty  of  the  rose  greater  than  the  beauty 
of  the  violet  ? " 

What  did  he  mean  ?  Was  she  dreaming  ?  Who 
was  the  violet  ? 


60         THE   HEART  STORY  OF  MISS  JACK. 

She  looked  across  the  sea,  and  a  sudden  feeling 
came  over  her  that  it  would  be  good  to  lie  down 
among  the  flowers  now,  with  his  voice  in  her  ear,  to 
fall  asleep  and  never  to  wake  again.  She  had  never 
thought  life  a  burden  before,  but  she  felt  that  now 
without  him  the  very  sun  would  shine  no  more. 

A  humming-bird  swirled  and  whirled  about  her, 
and  its  gold-green  plumage  glistened  royally  in  the 
sun.  With  a  flutter  he  flew  against  the  flowers  on 
her  breast  and  rested  there  a  moment,  she  was  so 
still. 

"  The  very  birds  love  you,"  Beresford  said,  watch- 
ing her. 

"  Please  say  no  more  kind  things  to  me,"  she  cried, 
with  so  passionate  a  protest  in  her  voice  that  the 
humming-bird  flew  away,  and  the  forget-me-nots  rose 
and  fell  with  the  quick  beating  of  her  heart. 

" I  am  not  like  other  women,"  she  cried ;  "I  am 
poor  and  plain.  What  is  there  in  me  to  make  you  so 
kind  ?     Your  kindness  is  cruel." 

For  the  first  time  she  looked  into  his  face  full  and 
frank. 

"  You  are  a  man  who  plays  with  women's  hearts  "— - 

What  was  it  her  lips  dared  to  say  ? 

"  Only  with  hearts  that  are  offered  to  me  without 
the  asking,"  he  said,  simply.  "  You,"  he  added, 
with  a  frankness  which  would  have  been  cruel  but 
for  its  earnestness, — "you  are  a  plain  woman;  )ou 
have  nothing  of  that  which  heretofore  has  attracted 
me,  and  yet  you  do  attract  me.  I  do  not  mean  to 
say  fine  words  to  you.  What  I  say  I  cannot  help 
saying.  You  attract  me  —  the  woman  in  you  is 
stronger  than  the  man  in  me." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile  which  once  more 
seemed  to  make  her  beautiful. 

He  stooped  and  took  a  spray  of  the  forget-me-nots 
on  her  breast  and  held  it  in  his  hand. 


THE   HEART  STORY   OF  MISS   JACK. 


6l 


"Yesterday  I  found  you,"  he  said,  his  eager  gaze 
holding  hers.  "  I  rowed  you  across  the  sea,  and  we 
were  alone  together.  To-day  I  found  your  soul,  and 
I  want  to  be  alone  with  you  again  on  the  sea.  Will 
you  come  with  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered,  as  if  in  a  dream,  and  fol- 
lowed him  across  the  lawn  to  the  rowboat  moored  at 
the  wharf.  All  the  world  was  a  world  of  enchantment 
to  her,  and  in  it  they  two  were  alone  together. 
Steadily  he  bore  her  across  the  deep,  deep  water,  and 
in  the  distance  she  could  hear  the  idle  flapping  of 
sails  and  the  cry  of  sea-gulls. 

The  glory  of  a  summer  day  was  over  the  enchanted 
island  they  had  left,  and  on  the  sea  lay  the  brooding 
quiet  of  the  afternoon. 

The  splash  of  the  oars,  that  caught  the  light  of  the 
sun  on  their  glistening  blades,  alone  broke  the  still- 
ness between  them,  as  she  watched  him  with  bated 
breath  —  so  happy  !  God  knows,  so  unspeakably 
happy !  and  not  daring  to  look  in  his  eyes,  that 
watched  her,  she  knew,  with  a  tender,  wondering 
look,  as  one  who  finds  unknowingly  a  jewel  of  great 
price. 

"  I  have  found  you,"  he  said,  a  little  huskily,  bend- 
ing forward.  He  laid  down  the  oars,  and  the  boat 
drifted  with  the  tide.  "  I  have  found  you,  beloved, 
and  I  will  keep  you.     Come  to  me  !  " 

He  held  out  his  hands  to  her  and  drew  her  towards 
him,  and  for  one  divine  moment  her  head  lay  on  his 
breast. 

Oh,  the  glory  of  that  summer  day!  The  cruel 
glory, — the  cruel  happiness !  "  I  love  you !  love  you  1 
love  you  1 "  he  cried. 


62         THE   HEART  STORY   OF   MISS  JACK. 


IV. 

AS  sure  as  that  she  was  living  the  words  had  been 
spoken  :  they  rang  in  her  ears. 

What  had  happened  to  her  ?  Miss  Jack  looked 
about  her  dazed.  She  was  still  sitting  in  her  corner 
by  the  screen  and  the  open  door,  but  she  was  quite 
alone. 

A  passionate  voice — his  voice — said  again,  "  I  love 
you,"     To  whom  ? 

Miss  Jack  rose  to  her  feet,  and  held  out  two  trem 
bling  hands,  as  a  blind  person  would.  There  was 
an  odor  of  violets  in  the  air  that  made  her  faint,  and 
in  her  usual  corner  sat  Mrs.  Pendexter,  and  beside 
her  Mr.  Beresford,  half  kneeling,  looked  into  her 
averted  face  with  imploring  eyes. 

"  You  know  that  I  love  you  blindly,  foolishly,"  he 
cried.  "  You  know  that  I  love  you  as  you  would  wish 
a  man  to  love.  My  love  for  you  takes  away  my  very 
manhood  " — 

"  Mr.  Beresford,  you  have  evidently  forgotten  that 
Miss  Jack  is  behind  the  screen.  She  is  probably  lis- 
tening." 

"  What  do  I  care  for  Miss  Jack  !  The  whole  world 
may  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say." 

"  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Beresford,  I  would  rather  not." 

"  You  certainly  do  not  speak  like  a  woman  who  is 
in  love,"  Beresford  said,  bitterly. 

"  I  am  not,"  Mrs.  Pendexter  remarked,  with  ex- 
ceeding frankness. 

Miss  Jack  drew  a  tremulous  breath  and  cowered 
behind  the  screen.  For  the  salvation  of  her  soul,  she 
could  not  have  left  the  room. 

"  I  had  some  hope,"  Beresford  said,  with  an  entreaty 
which  was  pitiable, — "I  had  some  hope  when  I  saw 


THE  HEART  STORY   OF  MISS   JACK.         63 

your  black  gown  changed  to  this ; "  and  he  touched 
her  dress  as  only  a  man  who  loves  touches  the  gar 
ment  of  his  beloved. 

"  So  had  five  others.  I  told  you  so.  You  make 
the  sixth.  And — perhaps  I  might  just  as  well  tell 
you," — Mrs.  Pendexter  hesitated. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  asked,  rising. 

"  I  have  already  given  my  promise." 

"You  said  that  you  were  not  in  love."  He  spoke 
through  his  set  teeth,  and  looked  down  at  the  woman 
he  loved. 

"  I  am  not,"  Mrs.  Pendexter  began,  but  rose  with 
uncommon  swiftness  at  the  sound  of  ponderous  feet 
shuffling  across  the  veranda.  Mr.  Virginius  Chick 
came  into  the  room,  jealous,  suspicious,  and  scowling. 
Mrs.  Pendexter  looked  into  his  face  with  a  very  faint 
smile. 

"  My  dear,  Mr.  Beresford  has  just  come  to  bid  me 
good-by.  I  was  about  to  tell  him  that  the  next  time 
he  would  see  me  I  should  be  your  wife," 

Mr.  Beresford  was  so  dazed  when  he  left  the  room 
that  he  nearly  ran  against  a  thin,  black  person  on  the 
piazza. 

"  Pardon  me  1  Oh,  is  it  you.  Miss  Jack  ?  Good- 
by  !  I'm  going." 

'*  Going,  Mr.  Beresford  ?     Good-by." 

A  dismal  and  long-drawn  howl  swept  through  the 
air. 

"  Miss  Jack,  where  are  you  ?  Why  don't  you  see 
to  Adolphus  ? "  Mrs.  Pendexter  cried,  with  her  languid 
voice  pitched  to  an  uncommonly  high  key. 

Miss  Jack  turned  down  the  garden-walk  with  a 
curious,  pinched  look  in  her  thin  face,  as  if  all  youth 
and  hope  had  vanished  out  of  her  life. 

"I  guess  I  must  have  dozed  off  and  dreamed," 
Miss  Jack  thought  drearily,  "  God  help  me  1 " 


64        THE   HEART   STORY   OF  MISS  JACK. 

So  she  came  back  to  reality  again  in  the  shape  of 
Adolphus  Pendexter,  who  was  battling  with  a  grim 
cat,  upon  whose  stately  back  he  was  trying  to  ride. 
The  cat  hissed,  the  infant  Pendexter  howled,  and 
Miss  Jack  took  up  the  burdens  of  life  again. 


*'  FATHER.' 


JACK  WARDLOW  stood  before  the  entrance  of 
the  Hotel  Metropole,  in  Geneva,  and  examined 
the  prospect. 

He  was  a  man  above  the  middle  size,  his  shoulders 
well  back,  with  a  promise  of  strength,  and  the  rather 
negligently  artistic  cut  of  his  clothes  was  tempered 
by  good  taste.  Above  everything,  he  had  an  ami- 
able, smiling  face,  which  left  his  friends  in  doubt 
whether  he  could  ever  hope  to  live  up  to  it. 

He  was  a  painter  by  profession ;  belonging  to  that 
tribe  of  young  American  artists  in  Paris  who  paint 
from  a  French  recipe.  In  general  he  was  not  dis- 
satisfied with  existence,  though  now  he  confessed  to 
being  a  trifle  bored.  A  sharp  wind  swept  across  the 
lake,  and,  with  an  impatient  shiver,  Wardlow  lighted 
a  cigarette  and  looked  down  the  street,  with  its  tall, 
gray  houses,  till  his  eyes  rested  on  a  vehicle,  which 
clattered  toward  him  and  pulled  up  with  a  jerk  at  the 
entrance  of  the  hotel. 

The  head  waiter  so  far  unbent  as  to  meet  half 
way  the  individual  who  shot  out  of  the  carriage. 

The  stranger  was  a  short,  thick-set  man,  and  when 
he  took  off  his  slouchy  hat  he  mopped  his  head — ap- 
parently as  a  matter  of  habit — with  a  red  handker- 
chief. 

Pulling  a  plebeian  traveling  shawl  about  his  shoul- 
5  (65) 


66  "  FATHER." 

ders,  he  fixed  the  head  waiter  with  shrewd  gray  eyes, 
and  demanded,  "Any  museum  in  this  town  ? " 

The  head  waiter,  betrayed  into  truth  by  the  unex- 
pectedness of  the  question,  mournfully  said,  "  No." 

"  Thank  God ! "  the  other  exclaimed,  stumping 
back  to  the  carriage. 

"  Nothin'  to  see,"  he  murmured.  "  This  is  just  the 
place  for  me  !  A  regular  one-hoss  town.  Come  out, 
mother.     Don't  forget  anything.  Rose." 

The  free  Swiss  mountaineer  who  drove  the  cab, 
and  who  was  only  conspicuous  for  independent  dirt, 
rolled  off  his  box  and  stared  at  mother  while  she  was 
extricated  from  the  vehicle  by  the  head  waiter. 

"  Father,"  mother  began,  struggling  for  breath. 

"  Bethia,  just  the  place  for  us,"  father  cried, 
stalking  on  ahead,  free  as  air,  while  mother  followed, 
much  bewildered.  It  was  the  head  waiter's  suc- 
cumbing to  youth  and  beauty  which  prevented  the 
last  of  the  party — who  blushed  as  red  as  the  long  red 
cloak  she  wore — from  depositing  the  whole  collection 
of  small  luggage  on  the  sidewalk,  out  of  sheer  weari- 
ness. Followed  by  the  approving  head  waiter,  she 
was  about  to  pass  Wardlow,  still  loitering  by  the  door, 
when  an  imperative  voice  briefly  called  out :  "  Rose 
—body." 

With  a  blush  and  a  shy  raising  of  her  brown  eyes 
to  Wardlow,  she  returned  to  the  chariot,  and,  in 
passable  French,  begged  the  Swiss  mountaineer  to  be 
careful  how  he  handled  a  long  and  mysterious  box 
which  formed  a  portion  of  their  eccentric-looking 
baggage. 

"  Rose-;— body  !  how  very  remarkable,"  Wardlow 
mused,  as  the  wearer  of  the  scarlet  cloak  disappeared. 
"  If  they  are  traveling  about  with  the  body  of  a  de- 
ceased— good  heavens,  impossible !  Certainly  they 
don't  believe  in  mourning ;  I  should  say  not.  Scar- 
let, with  a  line  of  black  fur  about  the  hood.     Curious 


"FATHER."  67 

traveling  costume.  On  the  whole,  I  rather  like  it. 
I'll  go  in  and  reconnoiter." 

In  the  hall  he  discovered  "  father  "  leaning  against 
a  pillar,  and  staring  with  much  surprise  at  a  huge 
printed  placard  against  the  wall. 

He  still  wore  his  traveling  shawl,  the  old  felt  hat 
was  on  his  head,  and  the  red  bandanna  was  in  full 
play ;  he  seemed  to  be  an  object  of  mingled  scorn 
and  perplexity  to  the  soul  of  the  proud  head  waiter. 

At  the  sound  of  footsteps,  father  turned  and  gazed 
at  Wardlow  with  a  shrewd  smile. 

"  So  you're  a  Yankee  ?  Should  have  known  it 
even  if  I  hadn't  been  told. 

"  Very  flattering,  I  am  sure,"  Wardlow  murmured. 

"The  head  waiter  told  me.  I'm  a  great  one  for 
finding  out  things.     What  may  your  name  be  ?  " 

Wardlow  looked  at  his  countryman  helplessly,  then 
handed  him  his  card.  Father  extracted  a  pair  of 
steel-bowed  spectacles  from  a  shabby  case,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  study  the  scanty  information. 

"  Mr.  John  Winthrop  Wardlow,  Boston.  I  suppose 
some  of  your  folks  came  over  in  the  Mayflower  ? " 
he  demanded,  with  a  grin. 

"  I  really  don't  know.  If  they  did,  I  wish  they  had 
staid  in  England.  May  I  ask  whom  I  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  addressing  ? " 

Without  a  waste  of  words  father  took  him  confi- 
dentially by  the  arm  and  pointed  to  the  following 
printed  notices  against  the  wall : — 

"  Bains  chaud — i  franc  50  centimes.  Bains  froid 
— I  franc.     Bains  de  vapeur — 2  francs." 

"  Excuse  me,  but  I  don't  understand,"  Wardlow 
confessed,  after  reading  this  statement  of  facts. 

"A  very  curious  circumstance,  quite  a  coinci- 
dence," father  said,  "  I  don't  read  French,  myself, 
but  I  suppose  that  is  their  way  of  spelling  it.  I  spell 
mine  with  an  '  e.' " 


68  "  FATHER." 

"  Spell  yours  with  an  *  e,' "  Jack  repeated,  in  per- 
plexity. 

"  My  name  is  Baines.  Baines  with  an  '  e.'  Thomas 
G.  Baines,  Pittsburgh,  Pa.  All  I  ask  you  is,  why  did 
they  put  it  up  there  ?  " 

Jack  struggled  for  self-command.  "  It  means 
baths,"  he  explained. 

"  You  don't  say  so  ?  " 

He  looked  suspiciously  at  his  neighbor,  then  turned 
about,  muttering,  "Baths  —  bains  —  baths  —  don't 
know  about  that!  Seems  to  me," — here  he  stopped 
short  as  the  mysterious  box,  standing  on  end,  came 
within  range  of  his  irritated  vision. 

It  was  a  kind  of  pine  coffin-shaped  structure,  with 
"Thomas  G.  Baines,  Pittsburgh,  Pa.,"  stenciled  on 
one  side,  and,  near  by,  the  caution,  "  Glass.  This  side 
up,  with  care." 

"  On  his  head  ! "  was  all  father  exclaimed,  as  he 
sternly  contemplated  the  pine  monument. 

"  Shall  I — "  the  head  waiter  began. 

"  Yes,"  father  interrupted  with  a  growl,  "  take  it 
up  to  Miss  Baines's  room.  Leaving  him  down  here ! " 
he  growled,  following  the  porters  who  bore  the  mys- 
terious burden  upstairs. 

Wardlow  watched  them  till  he  saw  the  last  of  Mr. 
Baines's  short  gray  trousers  disappear  up  the  marble 
stairs,  and,  for  a  moment,  he  was  lost  in  reflections. 
"  If  it  is  a  body,  it  is  disposed  of  in  a  very  business- 
like way.  But  why  should  Miss  Baines  have  to  give 
the  body  house-room  ?  And  if  it  isn't  a  body,  what 
is  it  ?  By  George,  I  mean  to  know,"  Wardlow  ex- 
claimed, and  followed  in  father's  wake. 

He  looked  up  and  down  the  first  broad  corridor, 
and,  sure  enough,  by  an  open  door  stood  Miss  Baines, 
apparently  in  considerable  distress. 

To  her  appeared  Wardlow,  suggesting  assistance 
with  smiling  eyes,  that  took  in  Miss  Baines,  and,  be- 


"  FATHER."  69 

yond  Miss  Baines,  the  mysterious  pine  box  deposited 
in  the  very  center  of  the  room. 

"  Can  I  be  of  any  assistance  ?  You  seem  in  trou- 
ble. I  met  your  father  downstairs.  I  am  an  Ameri- 
can, like  yourself,"  Jack  began,  and  stopped,  slightly 
embarrassed. 

Miss  Baines  looked  at  him  with  brown  eyes  quite 
devoid  of  coquetry. 

"  I  would  like  to  get  rid  of  that,  and  I  can't,"  Miss 
Baines  said,  with  a  deep  sigh.  "  We've  had  him  with 
us  for  three  months,  and  father  is  so  afraid  he  may 
be  lost." 

"  Three  months  ?  He — who — what  ? "  Jack  asked, 
bewildered. 

"  It  is  Thotmes  the  Second.  Father  bought  him, 
for  he  intends  to  start  a  museum  of  antiquities  in 
Pittsburgh.  We've  brought  him  all  the  way  from 
Egypt.     He  is  a  mummy." 

For  a  moment  they  looked  at  each  other,  then 
Wardlow  laughed,  but  his  amusement  found  no  re- 
sponse in  Miss  Baines's  perplexed  face. 

"  You  know,"  she  continued,  with  unaffected  sad- 
ness, "  I  cannot  forget  that  he  really  is  a  body,  poor 
thing !  though  he  is  a  mummy.  I  can  hardly  sleep 
when  he  is  in  the  room.  I'm  so  sorry  that  he's  not 
nicely  buried.  I'm  always  thinking  of  his  poor  wife 
and  children  ;  how  dreadfully  they'd  feel  if  they  knew 
that  father  means  to  take  him  to  Pittsburgh." 

"  But,  Miss  Baines,  you  mustn't  forget  how  many 
thousand  years  ago  he  died." 

'*  It's  of  no  use,"  she  replied,  with  mournful  cer- 
tainty J  "  they  are  somewhere  where  they  can  see,  and 
I  know  just  how  they  feel." 

"  Poor  old  chap  ! "  Jack  exclaimed,  filled  with  sud- 
den commiseration  for  Thotmes  II. 

"Miss  Baines,  you  don't  know  me,"  he  said,  "but 
I  can  assure  you  I  am  honest,  and  I  give  you  my 


70  "  FATHER." 

word  of  honor  not  to  run  away  with  Thotmes.  Sup- 
pose I  have  him  carried  across  to  my  room  and  there 
he  can  stay  comfortably  while  you  remain  in  Geneva. 
He  won't  be  stolen  and  he  won't  spoil  your  dreams, 
or  indeed  mine.  I  am  afraid  I'm  not  so  tender  as 
you  are." 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you.  Perhaps  father  wouldn't 
miss  him  for  a  few  days ;  but,"  Rose  added,  with  a 
sigh,  "  father  always  has  him  placed  in  my  room  to 
cure  me  of  superstition  and  make  me  independent. 
I  mostly  see  to  the  trunks  as  well.  It  is  for  my  good, 
you  know." 

"  Hang  father  1 "  Jack  thought.  "  Tell  me,  will  you 
trust  him  to  me  ?  "  he  continued,  aloud. 

"  Indeed,  I  will !  "  Before  she  could  say  another 
word  Jack  was  downstairs,  and  in  five  minutes  more 
Thotmes  II.  was  transferred  to  Wardlow's  room. 
Sitting  t^te-k-tete  with  the  deceased  monarch,  he 
studied  the  stenciling. 

"  I'm  booked  for  Geneva  as  long  as  father  stays," 
he  reflected.  "  Poor  Thotmes,  what  a  curious  des- 
tiny yours — the  crown  of  Egypt  and  the  dust  of  Pitts- 
burgh !  To  think  that  you  haven't  even  the  pleasure 
of  knowing  how  sorry  she  is  for  you.  If  anything 
could  comfort  a  fellow  under  such  circumstances,  that 
would  in  spite  of — father." 


n. 

IT  was  Mr.  Baines's  boast  never,  under  any  circum- 
stances, to  do  anything  like  any  one  else. 
He  had  been  torn  from  his  Pittsburgh  tannery  by 
a  severe  and  sudden  illness.     On  recovering,  and  in 
the  same  attire  in  which  he  went  to  his  business  of  a 
morning,  he  embarked  for  Europe,  and  there  regained 


"FATHER."  71 

his  health  and  those  peculiarities  which  distinguished 
him. 

"  Father,"  in  traveling-shawl  and  bandanna  hand- 
kerchief, led  his  family  through  Europe,  Africa  and 
Asia.  He  planted  his  sturdy  legs  on  Arabian  soil 
and  ate  cold  camel  in  the  desert.  He  insisted  on 
mother's  keeping  house  in  Jerusalem,  and,  turning  up 
in  Egypt,  he  became  the  victim  of  a  mania  called 
"  Baines's  Museum  of  Antiquities,"  for  which  he 
collected  a  variety  of  expensive  trash,  which  followed 
in  his  train  as  if  European  collectors  had  one  eye, 
and  that  was  enviously  fixed  on  his  treasures. 

With  unerring  instinct  Mr.  Baines  always  went  to 
the  hot  places  in  the  heat,  and  to  the  cold  places  in 
the  cold. 

It  was  owing  to  accident  that  he  did  not  reach 
Switzerland  in  the  depth  of  winter ;  the  truth  is,  he 
needed  a  breathing  spell  to  collect  his  ideas.  Europe 
troubled  him ;  there  was  too  much  to  see  in  a  small 
space.  He  thought  of  Thotmes  H.  and  a  few  other 
trifles  he  had  bought,  yet,  somehow,  he  felt,  try  as  he 
would,  he  could  not  compete  with  the  "Loovers" 
and  the  "  Pity  Palaces."  But  here  was  Geneva 
without  the  shadow  of  a  museum,  and  Geneva  was 
as  old  as  the  hills,  while  Pittsburgh's  museum  was 
started  and  stowed  away  in — Jack  Wardlow's  room. 

To  him  Mr.  Baines  explained  his  plans. 

He  acknowledged  the  superior  merits  of  masculine 
society  by  desertihg  mother  and  Rose  for  Wardlow. 
Mother  did  not  care,  but  it  was  hard  for  Rose,  as 
Mrs.  Baines  hated  walking  and  objected  to  driving; 
so  the  poor  child  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  look  out 
of  the  window,  sighing  a  little  as  she  watched  father 
stump  through  the  park  over  the  way,  beside  the  gal- 
lant man  who  had  such  a  pleasant  smile,  and  who 
three  days  before  had  saved  her  from  Thotmes  II. 

It  was  not  till  the  second  day  after  their  arrival 


72  "  FATHER." 

that  Wardlow,  going  upstairs,  met  Miss  Baines  de- 
scending. 

"I  have  had  no  chance  to  tell  you  how  well  I 
sleep,"  she  said,  smiling  shyly. 

"And  I  sleep  no  worse.  I  have  just  left  your 
father — he  does  not  even  suspect.  I  hope  you  be- 
lieve he  is  quite  safe — Thotmes,  I  mean." 

"  Indeed,  I  do." 

"Miss  Baines,  there  is  such  a  pretty  walk  by  the 
lake, — do  let  me  show  you  !  " 

Miss  Baines  consented,  but,  somehow,  fate  was 
against  them  in  the  shape  of  father.  They  found  him 
at  the  hotel  entrance,  expatiating  to  the  head  waiter 
on  the  low  and  thievish  dispositions  of  all  Europeans, 
and  the  superior  intelligence  and  wealth  of  Americans. 
All  this  in  a  distinct,  nasal  voice,  with  much  waving 
of  a  pair  of  vigorous  arms. 

"  Going  out,  are  you  ? "  he  asked,  as  Wardlow  and 
Rose  passed  him.  "  I  guess  I'll  go  too,"  And  he 
took  such  possession  of  Jack,  that  Rose  had  to  walk 
behind  them  in  the  narrow  paths,  and  having  acci- 
dentally interfered  with  the  free  play  of  father's  feet, 
was  commanded  to  return  to  the  hotel  and  see  to 
mother. 

"  But,  Mr.  Baines,  the  walk  will  do  her  good,"  Jack 
remonstrated. 

"  Don't  you  worry,  she's  got  health  enough.  Be- 
sides, I  ain't  for  having  my  women-folks  round  all  the 
time." 

Rose  went  back  without  a  word,  but  for  the  first 
time  in  her  nineteen  years  of  existence,  something  in 
her  heart  rebelled  against  father. 

The  next  afternoon  Wardlow  eluded  father  and 
looked  about  for  a  glimpse  of  a  red  cloak. 

The  great  drawing-room  stood  open  and  Wardlow 
strolled  in ;  sure  enough,  he  saw  the  object  of  his 
search  seated  on  a  scarlet  "pouf,"  reading  to  mother, 


« FATHER."  73 

with  a  tired  flush  on  her  bent-down  face.  Mrs.  Baines 
was  surreptitously  napping,  with  a  look  of  profound 
wisdom. 

Rose  gave  a  startled  glance  over  her  shoulder,  and 
blushed  as  Wardlow  came  towards  her. 

"  I  was  so  disappointed  not  to  have  that  walk  yes- 
terday," he  began,  in  a  stage  whisper.  "I  looked 
for  you  this  morning,  but  your  father  would  take  me 
out." 

"  I  was  very  sorry,"  Rose  murmured,  with  a  sigh  ; 
"but  I  mustn't  speak  now,  or  mother  will  wake  up. 
She  always  wakes  up  if  I  stop  reading." 

"  But,  if  she  is  asleep,"  Jack  remonstrated. 

"  Please  don't.    I  would  like  to  talk,  but  I  mustn't." 

"  May  I  sit  down  and  listen  ?  It  would  be  such  a 
pleasure,  such  a — a  privilege." 

"  You  mayn't  think  so, — it's  a  sermon  on  Justifica- 
tion by  Faith  or  Works,  and  it  worries  mother  a  good 
deal,  for  she  isn't  sure — There,  I  knew  she'd  wake  if 
I  stopped." 

"  Don't  lose  a  minute.  Miss  Baines,  go  on  reading 
— she  may  go  to  sleep  again,"  Jack  urged. 

But  mother's  eyes  were  open  and  she  looked  wildly 
about. 

"  You  don't  read  as  distinctly  as  you  used  to.  Rose, 
or  perhaps  I  don't  hear  as  well.  I  didn't  even  hear 
you  come  in,  Mr.  Wardlow.  Sometimes  I  think  jus- 
tification is  by  one  way,  and  sometimes  by  the  other. 
He  is  considered  very  learned — I  wish  he  were  clearer. 
I  really  think  that  I  know  as  much  about  it  now  as  I 
did  before,"  which  was  very  likely,  as  Mrs.  Baines 
had  been  fast  asleep  all  the  time. 


74  "  FATHER." 


III. 

WARDLOW  climbed  the  narrowest  of  zigzag 
streets  that  wound  up  hill  like  a  corkscrew. 
It  led  him  to  a  mouldy  square,  paved  with  cobble- 
stones and  made  more  dim  by  a  row  of  linden  trees 
that  backed  up  against  a  weather-beaten  church. 

The  yellow  leaves  were  beginning  to  fall,  and  a 
young  person  in  a  red  cloak  was  absently  collecting 
them  with  the  end  of  a  huge  cotton  umbrella,  till  they 
lay  in  withered  heaps  at  her  feet. 

Wardlow,  with  an  involuntary  exclamation,  looked 
up  and  down  the  square  as  if  reconnoitering,  and  in 
three  strides  he  was  beside  her. 

"  Why,  Miss  Baines,  you  here  all  alone  ?  " 

Miss  Baines  appeared  to  check  a  desire  to  run 
away  ;  but  she  only  looked  past  him,  and  then  down 
at  the  umbrella,  and  at  last  her  eyes  rested  on  the 
familiar  shawl  over  her  arm. 

"  I  have  lost  father,"  she  said,  and  was  silent. 

*'  By  Jove,  a  happy  accident,"  Jack  thought.  "  As 
luck — I  mean  ill  luck — will  have  it,"  he  said  aloud, 
*'  I  cannot  find  him.  I  was  to  meet  him  here  to  go 
to  the  Dubois  watch  factory." 

"  He  gave  me  his  shawl  and  umbrella  to  hold,  and 
then  he  went  away.  I  suppose  he  meant  me  to  wait 
for  him.     He  has  been  gone  some  time." 

"  Would — would  you  be  willing  to  take  a  walk  now, 
Miss  Baines  ? " 

"Oh,  I  must  not." 

"  You  know  we  have  tried  eight  times,  but  your 
father  would  go  in  your  stead.  It  isn't  that  I  don't 
appreciate  him,  he  is  a  very  remarkable  man,  but  it 
— it  isn't  quite  the  same  thing,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Father  is  so  afraid  of  missing  something,"  Miss 
Baines  murmured. 


"FATHER."  75 

"  Hang  him !  I  wish  he  would ! "  Wardlow  thought, 
isavagely. 

f     "  He  said  yesterday,"  she  added  with  a  sigh,  **  that 
he  has  seen  all  he  wants  to  of  Geneva." 

They  were  silent  a  moment,  when  from  the  open 
door  of  the  church  swept  out  the  deep,  full  tones  of 
the  organ. 

"Perhaps,"  Wardlow  ventured,  "if  you  will  not 
take  a  walk,  you  will  at  least  come  into  the  church 
and  sit  down.  Your  father  will  be  sure  to  look  in — 
he  expects  me  also,  you  know.  You  must  be  tired ; 
let  me  take  the  shawl." 

It  was  a  gray  old  church,  with  a  stone  pavement, 
much  worn  ;  rough  straw  chairs  were  piled  up  against 
the  pillars,  and  a  point  of  red  light  burned  before  the 
deserted  high  altar.  In  a  rambling  gallery,  at  the 
back,  the  organist  played  in  desultory  fashion,  and 
the  only  other  living  creature  about  was  an  ancient 
chore-woman,  who  was  sweeping  the  floor.  A  few 
patches  of  scarlet  and  gold  lay  on  the  worn  pavement, 
where  the  daylight  fell  through  a  painted  window, 
and  there  was  still  a  faint  odor  of  incense  in  the  air. 

Wardlow  placed  a  couple  of  chairs  in  the  shadow 
of  a  pillar,  and  for  a  moment  they  sat  there  without 
speaking. 

"  So  your  father  has  seen  all  he  wants  of  Geneva  ? " 
Wardlow  broke  the  silence.     _, 

"  It  doesn't  take  him  long ;  he  goes  to  work  so 
practically.  I  don't  know  where  the  time  has  gone. 
You  know  we've  been  here  nearly  two  weeks." 

"  And  so  in  a  day  or  two  you  will  be  gone,  and— 
shall  we  ever  see  each  other  again  ? "  he  asked,  lean- 
ing forward. 

Her  eyes  fell  before  his  earnest  look. 

"  I  hope  so,"  she  whispered,  at  last. 

"Hope  so?" 


76  "  FATHER." 

"  What  more  can  I  say  ? "  she  asked,  taking  a  deep 
breath. 

They  were  quite  in  twilight,  and  the  music  swept 
softly  past  them. 

"  If — if  we  should  ever  meet  again,  you  wouldn't 
be  sorry,  would  you  ? " 

The  dark  eyes  met  his  with  shy  reproach. 

"  I'm  going  to  Cologne  in  two  or  three  weeks ; 
there  is  to  be  some  kind  of  a  great  time  there,  well 
worth  seeing,  and  if  I  could  induce  your  father  to  go 
there,  perhaps — perhaps  we  might  meet  again." 

"Indeed,  I  should  like  to  see  you  again,  Mr.  Ward- 
low.     You  have  been  very  kind  to — us." 

Again  there  was  a  momentary  silence,  which  Jack 
broke : 

"  Let  me  put  the  shawl  under  your  feet ;  you  will 
be  chilled."  So,  doubling  up  father's  sacred  shawl, 
he  knelt  and  placed  it  there  with  infinite  care ;  then, 
still  kneeling  he  looked  up  into  her  face.  "  I  have 
known  you  just  two  weeks,  Miss  Baines — but  to  me 
they  have  been  an  eternity  for — O  Rose,  my  darling, 
if  you  only  knew  how  I  love  you." 

"  Mr.  Wardlow  !  " 

"  See,  dear,  I  can  be  patient — I  will  wait  forever 
for  your  love  " — 

"  Mr.  Wardlow,  you  would  never  think  well  of  a 
woman  so  lightly  won,"  and  the  hand  in  his  firm 
clasp  struggled  faintly. 

"  Had  I  known  you  forever,  my  darling,  I  " — 

"  Mr.  Wardlow,  I  beg  of  you,  rise — there  is  father." 

"  Confound  him,"  muttered  Jack. 

Sure  enough,  there  was  father,  hat  in  hand,  peer- 
ing through  the  darkness,  and  mightily  triumphant. 

"  Found  you  at  last !  Guess  where  I've  been  !  In 
the  steeple — all  the  way  up." 

"  See  how  dusty  you  are,  dear !  Stand  still  a  mo- 
ment and  let  me  brush  you." 


"  FATHER."  77 

Rose  began  to  dust  father,  when  of  a  sudden 
she  gave  a  nervous  laugh.     "  O  father,  just  see ! " 

Mr.  Baines  could  not  see,  for  the  accident  had 
happened  to  the  tail  of  his  linen  duster,  upon  which 
was  marked  in  outline  stenciling,  "  Thomas  G.  Baines, 
Pittsburgh,  Pa." 

With  Jack's  help  father  emerged  from  this  garment 
and  examined  the  disaster. 

"  I  sat  on  it.  It'll  never  come  out.  I  know,  I 
made  the  ink.  I  thought  the  stencil-plate  was  dry 
when  I  laid  it  down.  That's  what  I  went  up  the 
steeple  for,"  he  explained  to  Wardlow. 

"  To  sit  on  a  stencil  plate  ? " 

"  Gracious,  no !  I've  stenciled  it  upon  the  steeple 
as  high  as  I  could  reach,"  father  continued,  with  a 
knowing  wink.  "  I  always  do  it.  There  ain't  no 
place  in  Europe,  Asia,  or  Africa  where  you  don't  see 
that  name.  It's  on  Solomon's  Temple  in  Jerusalem, 
and  on  the  top  of  the  highest  pyramid." 

"  When  I  undertook  this  tower  (tour)  it  came  to 
me  like  a  flash  to  do  it.  Some  folks  use  lead  pen- 
cils, others  jack-knives ;  but  when  I  do  a  thing,  I  do 
it  thorough,  so  I  brought  my  stencil-plate  along.  It 
saves  time,  and  this  blacking  just  eats  into  the  stone. 
I  mean  to  come  back  some  day  and  do  the  places  all 
over  again,  just  to  see  how  the  ink  wears." 

*'  You  don't  say  so  !  "  Jack  murmured. 

"  There's  nothing  like  being  wide  awake.  I  want 
all  the  folks  who  go  everywhere  to  know  that  there 
is  some  one  from  Pittsburgh,  Pa.,  who's  as  spry  as 
the  best  of  'em.     Now  let's  go  home." 

He  led  the  way  through  the  iron  gate  and  looked 
casually  over  his  shoulder  at  Rose. 

"  Guess  you'll  be  glad  to  get  out  of  here,  daughter. 
We're  going  to-morrow.  I've  bought  three  watches 
and  two  clocks,  so  I  calculate  we'll  be  set  up  for  life 


78  « FATHER." 

as  far  as  time-pieces  go.  By  the  way,  where's  my 
shawl?" 

"  I  forgot  it.     It  was  left  in  the  church,  father." 

Rose  ran  back,  picked  it  up  and,  turning,  stood  face 
to  face  with  Wardlow,  who  had  followed  her. 

"  I  love  you,  and  Rose,  my  darling,  I'll  be  patient 
and  some  day  you  will  learn  to  love  me." 

She  looked  into  his  face  as  if  to  speak ;  but,  as  if 
the  words  would  not  come,  she  darted  past  him  into 
the  dim  square,  where  the  withered  leaves  were  whirl- 
ing in  a  sudden  gust  of  wind. 


IV. 

AFTER  hundreds  of  years  the  Cathedral  of  Cologne 
was  at  last  completed.  The  final  stone,  to  rest 
on  the  apex  of  the  spire,  swayed  aloft,  waiting  for  the 
great  day  when  it  should  be  lowered  with  all  due 
pomp  and  ceremony,  and  when,  in  the  presence  of 
kings  and  princes,  amid  the  booming  of  cannons  and 
the  ringing  of  bells,  the  mighty  edifice  should  be  de- 
clared finished. 

A  few  days  previous  to  the  great  event,  the  curious 
— that  is,  those  who  were  steady  of  legs  and  not  too 
short  of  wind — were  at  liberty  to  climb  to  the  highest 
pinnacle,  up  some  seven  hundred  steps.  Winding 
in  and  out  of  the  scaffolding  they  could  reach  the 
point  where  the  last  stone  swayed  over  the  still  un- 
finished tower.  This  altitude  was  never  again  to  be 
reached  by  the  most  persistent  tourist,  for,  after  the 
i6th  of  October,  the  scaffolding  was  to  be  removed, 
and  the  two  spires  were  to  be  seen  free  from  that  net- 
work of  beams,  with  which  they  had  been  surrounded, 
apparently  since  time  immemorial. 

In  the  old  part  of  the  city,  not  far  from  the  Rhine, 
where  the  ancient  houses  have  each  a  different  gable, 


"FATHER."  79 

where  there  are  no  sidewalks,  but  a  good  deal  of  gut- 
ter between  the  cobble-stones,  there  stood  an  anti- 
quarian shop,  called  "  The  Golden  Bell."  It  was  a 
curious,  tumble-down  place,  opening  directly  on  the 
street,  and  from  the  musty  warerooms  on  the  ground 
floor,  to  the  gable  roof,  five  stories  overhead,  it  was 
crammed  with  all  sorts  of  antiquarian  odds  and  ends. 
There  was,  besides,  an  art  gallery  in  an  L  beyond, 
where  the  most  famous  of  the  old  masters  were  repre- 
sented, apparently  in  a  state  of  dotage. 

The  gem  of  the  collection — in  size,  at  least — was 
a  trifle  by  Rubens,  which  represented,  in  an  area 
twelve  feet  square,  a  remarkably  well  developed  old 
patriarch  receiving  a  volume  from  a  couple  of  angels, 
whose  draperies  needed  washing.  That  this  produc- 
tion was  authentic,  was  attested  by  a  "  barn-door " 
torn  in  the  skirt  of  the  patriarch's  garment. 

Two  men  stood  in  front  of  it,  while  the  third,  a 
Frenchman,  ostensibly  examined  the  pictures  on  an- 
other wall.  Of  the  two,  one  was  the  shopkeeper. 
The  other  was  Jack  Wardlow. 

Wardlow  examined  the  patriarch  with  undisguised 
enjoyment. 

"  Rubens — ah,  yes,"  he  murmured.  "  A  little 
thing  done  for  an  album ;  probably  never  meant  for 
exhibition.  He  may  have  been  right.  It  shows  that 
the  Great  may  have  moments  of — well — imbecility. 
Next." 

Wardlow  moved  to  the  next  picture,  and,  at  a 
quickly  suppressed  exclamation,  the  shopkeeper  cock- 
ed up  his  head  and  the  Frenchman  glanced  over  his 
shoulder. 

"  Velasquez,"  the  shopkeeper  grunted  in  explana- 
tion, "  thirty-six  inches  by  twenty-five.  Fifteen  hun- 
dred mark ;  same  price  as  that  one,  which  is  very 
cheap,  very  cheap;  it's  so  big;"  and  he  nodded  at 
the  soi-disant  Rubens. 


8o  "  FATHER." 

Wardlow,  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back, 
studied  the  Velasquez,  with  his  soul  in  his  gaze.  A 
woman  looked  down  upon  him  from  the  canvas  with 
dark,  brooding  eyes  that  had  a  strange,  golden  glim- 
mer in  their  depths.  A  mass  of  bronze  hair  crowned 
the  low  forehead  and  level  brows,  while  a  robe  of 
some  lustrous  gold  brocade,  left  bare  neck  and  throat, 
that  all  but  throbbed  with  life  and  passion. 

"  I  see  the  picture  is  signed,"  Wardlow  said,  at  last, 
to  break  the  silence. 

"  They  are  all  signed,"  the  man  of  trade  remarked, 
injured. 

"  Of  course  the  signature  is  a  forgery,"  Wardlow 
mused  ;  "  yet  I'll  stake  my  knowledge,  my  whole  fu- 
ture, that  these  shrewd  knaves  have  cheated  them- 
selves. It  is  a  Velasquez.  If  I  only  had  money 
enougli !     But,  hang  it,  I'm  cleaned  out." 

He  turned  away  and  stared  at  the  patriarch,  when, 
suddenly,  he  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 

"By  Jove,  I  have  it — father!  He  shall  buy  it. 
It's  worth  $100,000  at  least.  All  is  fair  in  love  ;  why 
not  do  him  a  good  turn  ?  Father  is  naturally  ill 
disposed  to  artists  ;  would  be  more  sympathetic  if  I 
were  a  gentleman  pork-packer  from  Chicago.  Now 
if  I  help  him  to  as  neat  a  bargain  as  he  ever  made, 
at  what  will  the  old  gentleman's  gratitude  stop  ? 
Nothing.  The  waiter  at  their  hotel  said  they  would 
be  sure  to  be  in  this  afternoon.  To  see  her  again 
after  three  whole  weeks !  " 

He  turned  to  the  shopkeeper :  "  Look  here,  I  shall 
come  back  to-morrow  with  a  friend,  to  whom  I  wish 
to  show  these  two  pictures,"  and  diplomatically  he 
included  the  patriarch.  "  He  or  I  may  buy  one  or 
both." 

No  sooner  was  he  gone  than  the  Frenchman  saun 
tered  up  and  although  he  barely  glanced  at  the 
Rubens,  he  remained  lost  in  deep  thought  before 
Wardlow's  fair  woman. 


«  FATHER." 


V. 

THE  young  Mees  is  in,  certainly." 
This  from  the  obliging  waiter  of  the  "  Dom- 
bof  "  on  the  Cathedral  Square,  to  Wardlow,  that  after- 
noon. 

"The  young  'Mees'  will  do,"  Jack  confided  to 
himself  as  he  knocked  at  the  door. 

She  stood  by  the  window  watching  the  turmoil  in 
the  square  below ;  at  sight  of  him  her  lips  quivered 
a  little. 

"You  see  I — I — ^have  turned  up  again,"  Wardlow 
replied,  struggling  with  a  slight  huskiness  of  voice. 

"  Do  I  look  very  murderous,  Miss  Baines  ?  " 

"  Why,  Mr.  Wardlow  ?  " 

"I  have  been  solely  occupied  in  killing  time. 
Three  weeks  ago  it  was  two  weeks,  now  it  is  five 
weeks.  Five  weeks  is  a  very  long  time.  How  can 
I  ever  win  you  ?  If  I  could  only  kill  a  lot  of  dragons 
or  fight  a  few  chaps,  as  they  used  to  !  But  now  there 
is  nothing  to  kill  but  time,  and  that  is  the  hardest  of 
all.  Forgive  me,"  he  cried  ;  "  if  you  only  knew  how 
long  these  weeks  have  been ;  how  you  have  pulled 
me  here  by  my  heart-strings." 

She  was  so  sure  of  him  now,  that  she  could  look 
into  his  eager  face  with  a  smile  and  a  doubting  shake 
of  her  head,  hypocrite  that  she  was. 

"  What  have  you  done  with  Thotmes,  Mr.  Ward- 
low?" 

"  Poor  old  sinner,  he  has  been  my  only  consolation  ; 
your  legacy,  you  know,  when  I  found  that,  by  some 
accident,  he  had  been  left  behind." 

"  We  were  so  afraid  you  might  forget  us — " 

"Forget  you,  O  Miss  Baines!" 

"  Us,  I  said,  Mr.  Wardlow.     Ah,  there  is  father. 
6 


82  "  FATHER." 

I  thought  I  heard  him  coming  upstairs.  "  Father,  you 
remember  Mr.  Wardlow  ? " 

"  So,  you're  here  again." 

"  I  haven't  been  here  before,"  Jack  replied,  with 
a  sense  of  injustice,  as  he  shook  the  horny  paw  held 
out  to  him. 

"  Curious,  but  you  always  seem  to  be  'round.  Got 
the  body  safe  ?  " 

"  Body  ?  Yes,  to  be  sure,  yes,  quite  safe.  I'll  send 
it  to  you." 

"  No  hurry.  Glad  to  be  rid  of  it  for  a  time.  By 
the  way,  you  did  us  a  good  turn  to  tell  us  to  come 
here  for  this  powwow.  I've  hired  three  seats  near 
the  Emperor  of  Germany  for  the  show  down  there," 
nodding  in  the  direction  of  the  square,  where  elabo- 
rate grand  stands  were  being  constructed  before  the 
entrance  of  the  Cathedral.  "I've  engaged  a  window 
to  see  the  procession,  and  done  nothing  but  look  at 
kings  and  queens, — and  most  of  'em  aren't  much  to 
see,  either.  There's  a  little  king  expected  at  the 
depot  in  an  hour,  the  head  waiter  tells  me,  I'm 
going  ;  will  you  come  along  ?  " 

Jack,  meditating  an  assault  on  father,  said  he  was 
at  his  disposal,  and  watched  Mr.  Baines,  in  a  genial 
glow,  back  into  the  familiar  shawl,  which  Rose  held 
ready  for  him. 

The  two  men  walked  on  in  silence  for  some  time, 
during  which  Jack  endeavored  to  accommodate  his 
long  strides  to  the  eccentric  gait  of  his  companion. 

"Mr.  Baines,"  he  said,  at  last,  "would  you  like  to 
do  a  stroke  of  business  ?  " 

Father  pricked  up  his  ears  like  an  ancient  war- 
horse. 

"  I  know  of  a  picture  which  you  can  buy  for  $375, 
which  is  worth  one  hundred  thousand  at  least." 

"You  are  joking!"  and  Mr.  Baines  stood  stock- 
still  in  the  crowded  sti^eet. 


"FATHER."  83 

"  Upon  my  honor,  no." 

"  Why  don't  you  buy  it  yourself  ?  " 

"  I  am  an  artist,  and — well,  I  haven't  enough  ready 
money,"  Jack  said,  annoyed  at  his  forced  confession. 
"  I'm  on  my  way  back  to  Paris  to  earn  more." 

"  You  are  honest,  at  least.  But  how  came  you  to 
discover  this  treasure  ? " 

"  Because  I  know  pictures,"  Jack  replied.  "  I 
found  it  in  an  antiquarian  junk-shop  where  no  one 
goes  except  to  be  cheated,  so  people  fight  shy  of  it. 
I  have  found  one  or  two  good  things  there  in  my 
time,  for  I  only  buy  that  of  which  I  can  judge." 

"  But  why  let  me  get  all  the  benefit  of  this  luck  ?  " 

"  Because,"  Jack  began,  in  some  embarrassment, 
"  because  I'd  like  to  put  you  under  obligations,  for 
I " — and  he  looked  earnestly  into  father's  face — "  for 
I  long  to  be  under  a  life-long  obligation  to  you,  sir." 

"  Hum  !  "  father  said,  reflectively,  and  for  the  life 
of  him,  Wardlow  couldn't  make  out  if  Mr.  Baines  un- 
derstood him  or  not. 


V. 

FATHER  declared  himself  at  Jack's  disposal  the 
next  afternoon,  at  4  o'clock,  and  the  young  man 
was  to  call  for  him  at  the  hotel.  Not  to  keep  the 
reader  in  suspense  as  to  the  catastrophe,  when 
4  o'clock  and  Wardlow  arrived,  no  Mr.  Baines  was 
to  be  found  in  or  out  of  the  "  Domhof."  At  5  o'clock. 
Jack,  in  consternation,  drove  to  the  "  Golden  Bell," 
hoping  that  father  might  have  strayed  in  there.  At 
6  o'clock  mother  was  crying,  and  Rose,  with  a  very 
pale  face,  was  trying  to  comfort  her.  At  7  o'clock 
the  host  of  the  "  Domhof  "  declared  that  the  police 
ought  to  be  apprised,  as  in  the  present  crowded 
state  of  the  city,  something  might  have  happened. 


84  "  FATHER." 

At  8  o'clock  the  Chief  of  Police  and  all  the  police 
departments,  were  notified  of  the  disappearance  of 
an  elderly  American  gentleman. 

In  their  sitting-room  mother  was  silently  crying  in 
a  corner,  while  Rose,  in  her  cloak  and  hat,  stood  be- 
fore Wardlow,  who  held  heir  hands  in  his. 

"  For  your  mother's  sake  keep  up  your  courage," 
Wardlow  implored.  "God  knows  I  would  give  my 
life  to  be  of  service  to  you — forgive  me !  But  you 
must  stay  here." 

As  she  still  stood  before  him  in  a  daze  of  trouble, 
he  unclasped  the  long,  red  cloak. 

"  My  poor  child,"  he  said,  with  infinite  tenderness, 
and  at  the  words  she  turned  away,  and  kneeling  be- 
side her  mother,  she  hid  her  face  in  the  poor  lady's 
lap  and  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

As  for  father,  not  to  keep  the  anxious  reader  in 
further  suspense,  he  was  neither  dead,  wounded,  nor 
robbed  ;  he  was  simply  an  involuntary  prisoner  some 
500  feet  above  ground,  with  as  superb  an  opportunity 
of  studying  Gothic  architecture — for  which  he  did  not 
care  a  rap — as  mortal  ever  had. 

In  the  solitude  and  silence  of  the  scaffolding  about 
the  great  towers  of  the  Cathedral  of  Cologne,  as  near 
as  a  human  being  will  ever  again  reach  its  highest 
pinnacle,  Mr.  Baines  was  imprisoned,  with  only  the 
moonlight  shining  through  the  wooden  network  to 
keep  him  company.  He  could  hear  the  confused 
hum  of  the  city,  lying  below  with  twinkling  lights,  the 
clang  of  the  church  bells,  while,  beneath  him,  the 
"  Kaiser  "  bell  boomed  out  the  hours  in  a  fashion 
that  made  the  sacrilegious  intruder  shake  in  his  boots. 
On  the  other  side,  the  Rhine  flowed  silently  on  its 
way  to  the  "Sieben  Gebirge,"  a  river  of  moonlight, 
broken  only  where  the  boats  floated  down  the  tide. 

Father  was  not  poetic ;  he  ignored  both  the  moon 


"FATHER."  85 

and  the  scenery.  He  hugged  himself  in  his  shawl 
and  shivered,  when  a  cold  blast  of  wind  played  hide 
and  seek  in  the  scaffolding,  and  jocosely  threatened 
to  knock  him  over. 

With  futile  rage  he  looked  down  at  the  '•'  Domhof  " 
in  the  square,  and  wondered  how  mother  and  Rose 
would  account  for  his  absence. 

Mr.  Baines  was  the  victim  of  misplaced  ambition, 
and  it  had  cost  him  dear.  That  afternoon  he  stole 
away  to  perform  at  leisure  the  ascent  of  the  cathedral. 
He  was  neither  actuated  by  curiosity  nor  a  weak  taste 
for  the  beautiful.  Mr.  Baines  had  heard  that  in  a 
day  or  two  the  scaffolding  was  to  be  removed,  upon 
which  a  bold  plan  occurred  to  him.  Had  it  been 
connected  with  a  lead  pencil  all  might  have  been 
well,  but  as  it  had  to  do  with  a  bottle  of  blacking  and 
a  stencil-plate,  it  proved  his  destruction. 

To  begin  with,  father  was  not  as  much  impressed 
by  Wardlow's  story  of  the  picture,  as  he  should  have 
been ;  neither  did  he  calculate  for  the  length  of  time 
it  would  take  him  to  make  the  ascent.  When  he 
reached  the  summit  he  found  only  a  couple  of  work- 
men clearing  up  the  debris  that  had  fallen  from  the 
surmounting  cross,  for  sight-seers  there  were  none. 

Fortune,  apparently,  favored  him,  for  one  of  the 
workmen  shouldered  a  box  of  stone  chips,  nodded  to 
his  companion,  and  disappeared  down  the  only  flight 
of  steps  which  led  to  the  platform  on  which  they  were 
standing.  The  chance  was  fine  for  father,  and  re- 
treating behind  a  beam  he  extracted  from  his  pocket 
an  ink  bottle,  a  brush,  and  a  stencil-plate,  and  then 
peeped  out  to  seize  his  opportunity. 

From  below  the  "  Kaiser  "  bell  boomed  5,  but  Mr. 
Baines  did  not  care,  for  he  was  watching  the  remain- 
ing man,  who,  in  turn,  examined  the  pure  gray  stone 
of  the  farther  spire,  with  undisguised  pride.  Quick  as 
a  flash,  father  darted  from  his  place  of  concealment 


86  "  FATHER." 

to  the  other,  and,  in  a  moment  more,  "  Thomas  G. 
Baines,  Pittsburgh,  Pa.,"  was  immortalized  on  the 
great  south  tower  of  the  Catliedral  of  Cologne. 

It  was  father's  misfortune  that  to  reach  the  steps 
he  was  obliged  to  pass  the  workman.  With  great 
discretion  Mr.  Baines  again  extinguished  himself  be- 
hind the  beam,  but,  as  ill  luck  would  have  it,  from 
the  contemplation  of  one  tower  the  stone-cutter  pro- 
ceeded to  the  other,  and  the  next  moment  he  stood 
face  to  face  with  the  jet-black  information — rather 
down  hill — that  Thorftas  G.  Baines  was  of  Pittsburgh, 
Pa. 

"  Himmel — donner-wetter — kreuz-sakrament !  "  he 
roared. 

Father  smiled,  but  he  felt  that  this  was  no  time  to 
appear. 

After  a  moment  of  consternation  the  stone-cutter 
fetched  his  tool-chest,  and  vainly  tried  to  scrape  off 
the  black  with  his  chisel. 

"  He  doesn't  know  how  it  eats  in,"  father  chuckled, 
and,  seized  with  compassion  for  such  wasted  energy, 
he  disclosed  himself. 

"  Don't,  don't,  it  won't  do  any  good,"  he  remon- 
strated, as  if  the  man  could  understand.  He  glared 
at  father,  pointed  to  the  inscription,  then  at  him. 

Father  nodded.  "Yes,  that's  me,  Thomas  G. 
Baines,  Pittsburgh,  Pa.,  and  you  may  scratch  till 
you're  blue  and  you'll  never  get  it  off." 

With  a  volley  of  ugly  German  words  the  stone- 
cutter shook  his  fist  in  father's  face,  grasped  his 
tool-chest,  and  in  an  instant  disappeared  down  the 
steps. 

*'  Most  remarkable  fellow,"  father  declared,  quite 
bewildered.  "  What's  the  use  getting  so  mad  about 
it  ?  'Tain't  his  house.  Glad  he's  gone.  Guess  I'll 
go  in  a  few  minutes." 

There,  father  was  mistaken,  for  after  descending 


"  FATHER."  ^7 

some  200  steps  in  and  out  of  the  scaffolding,  when  he 
at  last  reached  the  heavy  iron  door  that  leads  into 
the  body  of  the  church,  and  down  to  terra  firma,  he 
found  that  door  to  be  securely  locked.  He  banged 
away  at  it  for  half  an  hour,  till  he  was  forced  to  the 
pleasing  conclusion  that  he  was  destined  to  spend  the 
night  on  top  of  the  Cathedral  of  Cologne. 


•  VI. 

THAT  memorable  night  Wardlow  did  not  go  to 
bed.  He  sat  in  the  office  of  the  "  Domhof  "  and 
answered  the  summons  of  forty-five  policemen,  who 
came  in  turn  for  him  to  identify  Mr.  Baines  in  the 
persons  of  forty-five  vagrants  in  every  stage  of  intoxi- 
cation and  general  lowness. 

About  7  o'clock  the  next  morning — a  chilly  morn- 
ing with  a  gray  haze  in  the  air — he  came  back  from  a 
visit  to  a  distant  police  station,  pondering  as  to  Mr. 
Baines's  probable  fate. 

To  be  honest,  and  as  Jack  was  not  in  love  with 
father,  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  was  filled  with 
natural  indignation  that  the  old  gentleman  should 
have  disappeared  before  he  had  settled  about  the 
Velasquez. 

"  Just  my  luck,"  he  exclaimed,  and,  as  he  climbed 
the  three  or  four  steps  into  the  "  Domhof,"  he  looked 
over  his  shoulder  towards  the  cathedral,  which  lay  at 
right  angles  to  the  hotel. 

"  My  God ! "  he  shouted,  stared,  then  with  one  leap 
was  down  the  street,  and  the  next  moment  he  grasped 
by  the  shoulders  an  individual  arrayed  in  a  familiar 
shawl  and  wearing  a  hat  much  crushed.  At  Ward- 
low's  touch  a  face  expressive  of  cold  misery,  and  eyes 
that  flashed  fire  and  fury,  met  his. 

"In  God's  name,  where  have  you  been,  sir?" 


88  "FATHER." 

"  Been  ?  Ugh !  You  wait  till  I've  had  my  break- 
fast." 

"Your  wife  and  daughter  are  nearly  distracted 
with  grief  on  your  acccfunt." 

"Women  folks — fools,"  father  returned. 

Wardlow  followed  Mr.  Baines,  with  a  secret  grief 
that  he  should  have  turned  up  so  undamaged. 

"  We've  had  the  whole  police  force  out  after  you, 
sir." 

"  What  kind  of  a  ninny  do  you  take  me  for  ? " 
father  cried,  exploding. 

Jack  commanded  himself. 

"  At  least,  sir,  you  will  let  some  one  prepare  your 
wife  and  daughter  for  the  happy  event." 

"  Guess  I'll  see  to  that  myself,"  father  replied,  and 
trotted  upstairs. 

You  see,  father  not  having  had  any  anxiety  on  his 
own  account,  was  not  disposed  to  countenance  such 
weakness  in  others,  neither  was  the  last  night  spent  in 
such  a  lively  fashion  as  to  uphold  him  in  the  supper- 
less,  breakfastless,  and  chilly  condition  in  which  he 
found  himself. 

That  morning  the  stone-cutter  who  had  locked  him 
out,  came  to  his  airy  prison  and  talked  to  him  in  such 
a  threatening  way — though  Mr.  Baines  didn't  under- 
stand him — that  father  could  hardly  realize  the  trans- 
formation caused  by  two  broad  gold  pieces  which  he 
instinctively  slipped  in  the  horny  palm  of  that  "  son 
of  toil." 

From  that  moment,  by  some  magic  not  unconnected 
with  gold  pieces,  the  honest  laborer  grew  calmer,  and 
escorting  father  down  to  the  entrance,  took  leave  of 
him  with  a  grip  of  friendship  and  pleasure.  < 


"  FATHER."  89 


VII. 

MOTHER  did  not  die  of  joy,  neither  did  Rose, 
"O  Thomas,  Thomas,  I  thought  you  were 
dead,"  Mrs.  Baines  sobbed,  clinging  to  him. 

"  But  I  ain't,  and  I  want  my  breakfast,"  Mr.  Baines 
replied,  as  he  struggled  out  of  her  grasp. 

That  was  all.  After  breakfast,  when  he  had  filled 
the  void  within  him  and  was  thawing,  then  Rose  said, 
with  a  blush  creeping  up  to  her  dusky  hair,  "  Father, 
Mr.  Wardlow— " 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  about  him,"  he  interrupted. 

"  Father,"  Rose  continued,  leaning  over  the  table, 
"  we  are  under  the  greatest  obligations  to  Mr.  Ward- 
low.  If  it  had  not  been  for  him,  I  don't  know  what 
we  should  have  done  last  night." 

"  What's  he  got  to  bother  about  me  for  ?  I  ain't 
an  infant  in  arms.  I  wish  he'd  mind  his  own  busi- 
ness ! " 

"  I  never  thought  you  could  be  so  cruel,  father," 
Rose  cried,  indignantly. 

"  Look  here,  daughter,  what  d'you  mean  by  that  ? " 
Mr.  Baines  asked  in  amazement. 

"  You  are  unfeeling,  for  you  won't  let  mother  and  me 
show  how  glad  we  are  to  see  you.  You  make  nothing 
of  all  that  mother  has  been  through,  and  you  weren't 
even  civil  to  Mr.  Wardlow  who  was  up  all  night  long, 
trying  to  find  you.  You  are  under  great  obligations 
to  him  and  you'll  always  be  1  All  I  wanted  you  to 
do  was  to  thank  him." 

"  Obligations  ! "  father  shouted,  starting  to  his  feet. 
"  I  won't  be  under  obligations  to  any  man.  Guess  I 
know  what'U  make  us  quits.  See  if  I  don't.  What 
did  he  say  the  name  was  ?  Idiotic  name  for  a  shop. 
Oh,  yes — Golden  Bell.  I'm  going  out.  Obligations, 
indeed." 


90  "  FATHER." 

Father  slammed  the  door  behind  him,  and  in  a 
moment,  they  saw  him  drive  off  in  a  cab  with  a  seedy 
individual  who  did  duty  in  the  hotel  as  an  interpreter. 

Father  never  did  anything  by  halves,  and  the  way 
he  made  a  bee-line  for  the  picture-gallery  of  the 
"  Golden  Bell "  quite  refreshed  its  owner. 

He  was  rather  staggered  on  being  confronted  by 
the  patriarch,  which,  the  shopkeeper  explained  to 
the  interpreter,  was  one  of  the  two  paintings  the  gen- 
tleman had  admired,  the  other,  a  smaller  picture, 
having  been  sold  to  a  Frenchman.  Mr.  Baines  felt 
that  he  was  receiving  a  good  deal  for  his  money,  and 
so,  without  more  ado,  he  purchased  the  trifle. 

An  hour  after  a  covered  furniture  van,  drawn  by  a 
couple  of  dray  horses,  rumbled  up  to  the  front  en- 
trance of  the  "  Domhof."  Beside  the  driver  father 
sat  in  democratic  independence,  his  face  beaming 
with  smiles  ;  for  he  was  at  heart  a  generous  soul,  and 
as  he  was,  according  to  Jack's  statement,  about  to 
oblige  him  $100,000  worth,  he  looked  not  unconscious 
of  superior  virtue.  He  also  rejoiced  to  think  that 
very  soon  he  would  be  able  to  wash  his  hands,  so  to 
speak,  of  this  gigantic  work  of  art  and  leave  its  future 
disposal  to  another. 

Cautiously  father  climbed  down  from  his  perch  and 
ran  against  Wardlow,  who  was  hanging  about  the 
*'  Domhof  "  in  a  very  low  state  of  mind,  and  who  ob- 
served Mr.  Baines's  arrival  in  speechless  amazement. 
Father's  dominant  desire  was  to  get  rid  of  him,  for 
he  felt  that  the  sidewalk  was  an  inappropriate  place 
for  a  presentation  speech.  Ignoring  Wardlow's  cold- 
ness, he  said :  "  Won't  you  go  upstairs  ?  I  think 
daughter  wishes  to  speak  to  you."  Rose's  indigna- 
tion against  father  had  not  subsided,  and  as  she  held 
out  both  her  hands  to  Jack  standing  before  her,  she 
looked  into  his  face  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  said, 
with  a  gratitude  which  included  father's,  "  How  can 


"FATHER."  91 

I  ever  thank  you  enough  for  your  goodness  to  us,  Mr. 
Wardlow  ? " 

"  Don't  try  to — you  make  me  feel  ashamed.  Miss 
Baines — Rose — my  darling — do  you  not  know  that 
I  would  die  for  you  !  " 

He  held  her  hands  and  looked  into  her  downcast 
face,  and  at  his  eager  gaze  she  looked  up  at  last,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  you  could  hear  their  foolish  hearts 
beat  in  the  silence  as  she  whispered,  "  I — I  would 
rather  you'd  live  for  me — Jack." 

Just  as  he  held  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  as 
if  he  never  meant  to  part  from  her  again,  the  door 
opened,  after  a  perfect  chaos  of  scuffling,  to  which 
they  had  been  oblivious,  and  father  burst  in  with  a 
genial  smile,  which  froze  on  his  face  at  the  scene  be- 
fore him. 

"  I'd  prepared  a  little  surprise  for  you,  Mr.  Ward- 
low,  but  you've  given  me  one  which  beats  it  hollow. 
How  dare  you,  sir !     Why,  I  don't  know  you." 

"You  can  inquire  about  me,  sir,"  Jack  said,  boldly, 
"  then  if  you  find  my  record  unsatisfactory,  I  will  give 
up  your  daughter." 

Before  father  could  recover  from  his  amazement. 
Rose  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  rubbed  her 
coaxing  cheek  against  his. 

"  We  will  be  patient,  father,  and  not  unreasonable. 
You  know  you  were  not  rich  when  you  fell  in  love 
with  mother." 

For  a  moment  father  succumbed,  but  the  allusion 
to  mother  brought  him  to  himself. 

"Good  Lor',  yes,  mother.  She's  waiting  in  the 
bedroom  with  our  surprise."  So  speaking,  he  trotted 
to  a  side  door  and  flung  it  wide  open.  Sure  enough 
it  disclosed  mother  sitting  before  the  patriarch,  frame- 
less,  for  so  majestic  were  his  proportions  that  hardly 
any  door  would  let  him  pass.  Mother  was  staring  at 
the  soi-disant  Rubens  in  consternation. 


92  "  FATHER." 

"  This,"  said  father,  with  a  backward  wave  of  his 
hand  to  the  picture,  and  in  a  tone  of  deep  reproach 
to  Jack,  whose  amazement  lacked  all  the  ingredients 
of  joy,  "  this  mother  and  me  wish  to  give  you  as  a 
remembrance,  for  Rose  says  we  are  under  obligations 
to  you — " 

"  Not  I,  Thomas,  not  I,"  mother  interrupted,  re- 
fusing her  share  of  father's  little  surprise. 

"  Please  don't  give  it  to  me  !  Do  pray  be  under 
obligations,"  Jack  cried,  in  undisguised  alarm. 

"You  know  you  said  it  was  worth  a  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars." 

"  That  picture  !  That  isn't  worth  a  copper — it  is 
the  vilest  daub  I've  seen  for  many  a  day.  The  pic- 
ture I  meant  was  a  small  one — " 

"  That  is  sold,"  father  groaned. 

"You  see.  father,  you  still  are  under  obligations  to 
him,"  Rose  ventured  to  say,  patting  his  hard  old  fist. 

"  I  suppose  if  I'd  give  way  to  you,  the  obligation 
would  be  on  the  other  side  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father,  dear." 

"  Well,  I'll  see.  What  I  want  to  know  is,  what 
shall  I  do  with  that,"  and  he  turned  to  the  patriarch 
with  a  scowl. 

It  was  then  that  Wardlow  laid  the  foundation  to 
father's  future  favor.  "  Present  it  to  the  Pittsburgh 
Museum — it  is  quite  an  art  gallery  in  itself,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"  Gracious,  yes,"  father  exclaimed,  with  an  involun- 
tary sigh  of  relief.  "  I  had  quite  forgotten  the  Baines 
collection." 

"  There  is  Thotmes,  you  know,  father,"  Rose  added. 

"  Really,  my  darling,  I  hate  to  part  with  Thotmes," 
Jack  murmured.     "  It  was  he  who  first — " 

"  Oh,  but.  Jack,  dear,  you  can't  have  everything." 

Of  course  they  were  married,  so  it  is  no  use  to 


"  FATHER."  93 

disguise  this  singular  fact.  Five  months  from  that 
October  day,  Mr,  and  Mrs.  John  Winthrop  Wardlow, 
permanently  established  in  Paris,  strolled  down  the 
main  gallery  of  paintings  in  the  Louvre.  Mother, 
gorgeous  in  black  velvet,  followed  them,  greatly  ad- 
miring her  son-in-law,  while  beside  her  trotted  father, 
with  an  unmistakable  indigestion  of  the  "old  masters." 

Wardlow  was  proceeding  leisurely,  explaining  this 
and  that  to  his  wife,  proudly  conscious  of  admiring 
glances  thrown  in  her  direction,  when  of  a  sudden 
he  not  only  stopped  as  if  he  had  turned  to  stone,  but 
he  grew  deathly  pale  as  he  stared  at  a  picture  on  the 
wall,  in  a  gorgeous  new  frame,  upon  which  was  en- 
graved in  distinct  black  letters:  "Velasquez,  1599- 
1660." 

"Jack,  dear  Jack,  what  has  happened  ?  " 

"  Our  picture.  Rose  !  A  real  Velasquez,  as  I  knew. 
Worth  thousands.  To  have  all  but  had  it,  and  to 
lose  it,  and  then  to  find  it  here !     It  is  too  horrible." 

"  But,  Jack,  dear,  father  lost  it  as  well." 

"Bring  him  up.     I  want  him  to  suffer  a  little." 

Father  and  mother  were  stranded  on  a  red  velvet 
bench  and  father  was  staring  at  the  generous  skylights 
overhead,  while  mother  dozed. 

"  Mr.  Baines,"  Jack  said,  with  much  emotion,  as 
father  came  up  to  him,  followed  by  mother  and  Rose. 
"  This,  Mr.  Baines,  is  a  real  Velasquez,  and  it  is  the 
picture  you  did  not  buy  in  Cologne." 

Father,  wholly  unmoved,  closed  a  calculating  eye 
and  remarked,  "  I  should  say  that  the  other  one  is 
four  times  as  big." 

"  A  very  bold  looking  person,"  mother  added,  with 
much  disfavor. 

"  You  call  that  an  '  old  master,' "  father  continued 
scornfully,  "  why  it  might  have  been  painted  yester- 
day. As  for  the  young  woman,  she  looks  so  natural 
she  might  be  mother." 


94  "  FATHER. 

*•  Go  'long,  Thomas,  how  can  you ! "  mother  ex- 
claimed, quite  shocked. 

"  Only  a  figure  of  speech,  mother.  Now  that  pic- 
ture I  sent  to  Pittsburgh — anybody  down  there'd  know 
it  for  an  'old  master,'  because  it  was  so  almighty 
dirty.  Besides  it  was  so  big  with  the  new  frame  I 
ordered  for  it,  that  they  had  to  build  an  L  to  the  pic- 
ture gallery  a-purpose.  Now  if  I'd  sent  that,"  and 
father  pointed  his  forefinger  at  the  masterpiece  of 
Velasquez,  "they  could  have  hung  it  anywhere.  Be- 
sides, Pittsburgh  is  particular  ;  they'd  never  go  to 
see  her — there's  nothing  surprisin'  about  her  !  But 
take  an  'old  master'  like  that  Rubens  I  sent  'em, 
there's  nothing  like  it  on  earth.  That  race  of  men 
died  when  Rubens  died,"  and  father  shook  his  head 
in  deep  meditation. 

**  They  were  giants  in  those  days.  If  you  can  call 
to  mind  the  patriarch's  arms — not  a  young  man,  but 
what  muscles,  Jack." 


THE  STORY  OF  AGEE  SANG  LONG. 

FOR  a  whole  month  I  listened  in  agony  to  the  tin- 
kle of  the  front-door  bell,  and  when  footsteps 
shuffled  up  and  down  stairs  and  then  out,  I  leaned 
back  in  my  chair  and  laughed  mirthlessly  at  my  own 
disappointment.  I  was  a  young  doctor  waiting  for 
my  first  patient. 

Such  was  my  despair,  because  the  neighborhood  to 
a  man  refused  to  be  cured  at  my  hands,  that  at  last  I 
ceased  to  keep  up  appearances  even  with  my  old 
landlady,  Mrs.  Macgruder.  At  first  she  was  unmis- 
takably overawed  by  my  writing-desk,  a  very  hand- 
some skeleton,  a  couple  of  skulls,  and  a  few  hearts 
and  livers  in  spirits,  which  I  kept  on  a  shelf  in  my 
office.  However,  I  had  not  been  her  lodger  one  week 
when  she  took  an  early  opportunity  to  tell  me  that 
she  thought  I  was  very  young. 

Regarding  me,  as  she  did,  as  a  medical  infant,  I 
longed  to  have  her  become  horribly  ill  with  a  compli- 
cation of  disorders  till  then  unknown  to  science, 
whereupon  I,  like  a  nineteenth-century  knight-errant, 
would  come  to  the  rescue,  save  her,  and  earn  her 
eternal  gratitude.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  she  con- 
tinued in  good  health. 

Mrs.  Macgruder  dropped  into  my  office  at  all  hours, 
and  on  a  certain  late  November  afternoon  she  came 
in  with  an  untimely  feather  duster,  which  she  held 
over  her  head  in  an  Oriental  fashion,  while  she  sub- 
sided into  my  office  chair,  one  fat  hand  spread  over 

(95) 


96  THE   STORY   OF  AGEE   SANG  LONG. 

her  fat  person.  From  this  shelter  she  favored  me 
with  sketches  of  the  Macgruders,  interspersed  with 
sops  of  comfort. 

"  I've  been  a-talking  about  you,  sir.  If  you  was 
my  own  I  couldn't  think  more  of  you.  My  heart's 
that  soft  I'd  let  you  poison  my  best  friend.  It  was 
only  last  night  Sally  Macgruder's  first  cousin  said  as 
he'd  be  certain  to  have  you,  sir,  if  he  was  took  ill. 
Next  week  he's  going  to  Texas  to  settle.  But,  Lor ' ! 
he  may  break  his  neck  twenty  times  afore  that." 

"  Mrs.  Macgruder,  I  am  sorry  that  I  can't  enjoy 
your  society  any  longer,"  I  said,  with  dignity,  "  but  I 
have  a — a  consultation." 

"  Dear  me  !  "  Mrs.  Macgruder  said,  with  a  parting 
stab,  "  and  you  so  young !  " 

She  vanished,  and  I  stared  hopelessly  out  of  the 
dingy  window.  Fifty  years  ago  the  street  was  solidly 
respectable  ;  to-day  it  is  quite  ungenteel.  A  few  dy- 
ing trees  before  the  old  houses,  displayed  upon  their 
sides  cards  proclaiming  lodgings  to  let  and  table 
board,  at  starvation  prices.  The  bit  of  ground  railed 
in  before  each  house,  was  fruitful  now  in  broken  bot- 
tles and  bones.  Here  organ-grinders  were  welcome, 
and  the  inhabitants  were  generous  to  monkeys  ;  itiner- 
ant street  bands  played  here  with  redoubled  vigor, 
for  they  were  at  home,  and  the  garrets  loved  them. 
I  settled  in  this  modest  location  thinking  that  this, 
indeed,  might  be  called  the  foot  of  the  ladder. 

Twilight  crept  on,  dull  and  gray,  and  the  narrow 
street  was  deserted.  It  was  so  still  that  I  could 
faintly  hear  the  tooting  of  the  street  band,  frozen  into 
a  garret,  and  it  was  growing  so  dark  that  the  skeleton 
in  the  corner,  modestly  wrapped  himself  in  a  shadow. 
Suddenly  the  door-bell  rang,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
four  weeks,  I  paid  no  attention  to  its  tinkle,  and  turned 
about  half  scared,  as  some  one  knocked  at  my  door, 
which  opened,  and  a  figure  crossed  the  threshold.     I 


THE  STORY  OF  AGEE  SANG  LONG.    97 

thought  it  was  a  child  wrapped  in  its  mother's  poor 
shawl,  and  I  could  not  see  her  face  at  first  for  the 
hood  about  her  head.  The  child  dropped  a  series  of 
curtsys,  and  then  I  noticed  that  she  carried  a  great 
bundle  in  her  arms. 

"  Agee  Sang  Long,  sa',"  said  a  thin,  quavering  voice, 
as  a  small  hand  pushed  the  hood  aside,  and  I  was 
startled  to  find  the  child  to  be  a  tiny  Chinese  woman, 
whose  set  and  careworn  face  showed  her  to  be  at  least 
sixty  years  old. 

For  a  moment  I  could  only  stare  at  the  queer,  yel- 
low, flat  countenance,  with  its  snub-nose,  and  a  mouth 
like  a  pale  slit  between  a  long  upper  lip  and  a  short 
chin.  Coarse  black  hair  fell  across  her  bright  black 
eyes,  full  not  so  much  of  intelligence,  as  of  a  pathetic 
remonstrance. 

"  And  what  can  I  do  for  you,  Agee  Sang  Long  ? 
Are  you  ill  ?  " 

"  I  no  ill,  but  he  be.  He  a'  my  companee,  my  on'y 
frien',  and  he  be  so  si',  I  bring  him  to  you,  docto', 
fo'  to  makee  well,"  Whereupon  she  softly  undid  the 
bundle  and  discovered,  wrapped  in  a  warm  shawl,  a 
melancholy  specimen  of  a  cat.  "  I  hab  motiee,  docto' ; 
I  can  payee  ri'  off.  You  makee  he  well,"  she  ven- 
tured, wistfully,  as  I  took  the  poor  beast  in  my  arms. 

It  was  humiliating  to  find  that  my  first  patient  was 
a  cat,  but  after  a  month's  waiting  even  a  cat  was 
welcome.  The  poor  thing  was  suffering  from  slow 
poison.  I  explained  it  learnedly,  while  Agee  bobbed 
a  curtsy,  and  held  one  limp  paw  in  her  yellow  hand. 
I  administered  a  hopeless  antidote,  and  then  they 
prepared  to  go,  the  patient  wrapped  in  his  shawl,  and 
cuddling  up  to  that  heathen  breast. 

"  He'  be  a  dolla',  sa',"  said  Agee  Sang  Long. 
"  Me  ha'  monee  to  payee  you." 

The  blood  rushed  to  my  face.  I  couldn't  take  a 
fee  for  a  cat 


98         THE    STORY  OF  AGEE    SANG   LONG. 

"  No,  Agee,  it's  all  right,"  I  exclaimed,  as  if  fees 
were  no  object.  "  I'll  come  round  to-morrow  and 
see  the  patient."  I  wished  to  cast  dust  in  the  eyes 
of  Mrs.  Macgruder. 

I  watched  her  down  the  street,  and  my  blood  boiled 
as  some  ragamuffins  tore  after  her,  shouting  "  Rat ! 
rat ! "  As  I  turned  away  I  saw  something  glisten  on 
my  desk.  Jt  was  a  silver  dollar  that  Agee  Sang  Long 
had  left. 

The  next  day  I  hunted  up  No.  2  Paris  Court,  where 
my  only  patient  lived.  Paris  Court  consisted  of  six 
shabby  houses,  in  the  rear  of  front  yards  full  of  re- 
mains. I  groped  my  way  through  a  decaying  arbor 
to  reach  No.  2.  I  never  saw  houses  look  so  ill  at 
ease.  They  had  once  been  respectable,  if  not  opu- 
lent. This  had  been  a  suburb  with  fresh  air,  and  a 
brook  had  trickled  past ;  it  was  a  dirty  puddle  now. 
Chestnut  trees  once  shaded  the  porches,  and  over 
the  fences,  white  and  purple  lilacs  had  blossomed  in 
spring.  One  day  a  suspicion  crossed  the  houses  that 
the  town  was  creeping  dangerously  near,  and  a  few 
months  after,  they  found  themselves  imprisoned  by 
rows  of  dirty  brick  dwellings  that  shut  out  the  sun- 
light and  air.  At  first  they  clung  to  gentility,  but 
when  the  trees  died,  and  the  bushes  withered  for  want 
of  air,  and  the  lilacs  were  parched  with  the  heat  and 
dust,  and  when  the  pretty  fence  itself  broke  down 
under  neglect,  then  they  gave  up  pretending,  and, 
like  gentility  when  it  at  last  gives  up  appearances, 
broke  down  worse  than  their  neighbors. 

I  stood  in  the  dull,  musty  entry,  and  shouted,  "  Agee 
Sang  Long  !  "  and  I  was  about  to  repeat  it,  when  queer 
sounds,  proceeding  from  a  door  opening  near  by, 
struck  my  ear.  I  knocked,  and  as  no  one  answered, 
I  turned  the  door-knob  and  entered  a  poor  little  room, 
with  the  light  of  day  creeping  feebly  through  two 
small  windows  that  were  cross-barred  by  gnarled  and 


THE  STORY  OF  AGEE  SANG  LONG.         99 

stalky  remains  of  ancient  grape-vines  on  tumbling 
trellises.  Everything  but  two  great  wash-tubs  was 
very  diminutive,  and,  as  I  hastily  noticed,  scrupu- 
lously clean.  But  there  was  only  one  thing  I  dis- 
tinctly saw.  In  the  middle  of  the  bare  floor,  on  a 
wooden  cricket,  stood  a  small,  rude,  pine  box,  and  in 
it,  surrounded  by  wintergreen,  and  about  his  neck  a 
new  ribbon,  lay  my  patient  of  yesterday.  Beside  it 
crouched  Agee  Sang  Long,  her  head  against  the  box, 
sobbing  bitterly,  and  on  a  chair  at  its  foot,  stood  a 
music-box,  which  cheerfully  and  monotonously  rattled 
out  "  The  Beautiful  Blue  Danube  "  waltz. 

"  Agee  !  why,  Agee  Sang  Long !  " 

At  the  touch  of  my  hand  she  looked  up  with  fright- 
ened eyes  and  a  haggard  face. 

"  Oh,  docto',  he  die — he  die !  Him  all  frien'-  I 
hab,"  she  sobbed.  "  Dey  pizen  him,  and  I  hab  no 
frien'  mo'." 

Then  she  rose,  with  something  of  Oriental  com- 
posure and  politeness,  and  put  her  own  grief  momen- 
tarily aside  to  attend  to  me. 

"  It  is  only  a  cat,  Agee,"  I  suggested,  awkwardly. 
"  There  are  plenty  of  cats  in  the  world  ;  you  will  find 
pets  enough." 

She  looked  at  me  with  patient  wonder,  and  a  spasm 
crossed  her  ugly  face. 

"  Wha'  diee,  diee.     I  lub  no  cat  mo'." 

All  this  time  the  air  was  rent  with  "  The  Beauti- 
ful Blue  Danube." 

"  Who  poisoned  your  cat  ? "  I  asked. 

"  De  peopr  in  de  house.  Dey  ha'  me  'cos  I  Chinee. 
Dey  wan'  me  turn  ou'  ob  de  house." 

She  said  this  with  unflinching  composure.  She 
hardly  pitied  herself;  it  was  all  fatality. 

"  Do  they  ill-treat  you  ?  "  I  asked,  indignantly. 

"De  man  of  de  house  he  drinkee,  and  when  he 
drinkee,  he  ha'  all  Chinee.     Dey  try  to  pizen  I.     Dey 


100       THE    STORY   OF  AGEE   SANG  LONG. 

pizen  he."  She  turned  back  and  patted  her  dead 
friend. 

I  looked  at  her  aghast.  All  this  persecution 
against  a  harmless,  lonely  creature,  in  this  nineteenth 
century,  as  if,  by  the  grace  of  God,  we  were  in  the 
Dark  Ages ! 

"  Are  you  all  alone  in  the  world  ?  " 

"  Yes."  Not  in  pity  at  all ;  simply  as  a  fact — a 
fatality. 

"  Look  here,  Agee,"  I  said,  as  I  left  the  room,  *'  if 
these  wretches  annoy  you  in  any  way,  come  to  me, 
and  I  will  see  that  it  is  stopped." 

As  I  turned  into  Paris  Court,  I  was  so  indignant 
that,  for  a  moment,  I  forgot  my  own  pressing  cares. 
It  was  a  very  cold  evening,  and  the  sharp  wind  swept 
up  all  small  objects  and  whirled  them  round  the  cor- 
ners. I  was  going  at  a  swinging  pace,  buried  in 
wrath,  when  something  came  puffing  up  behind  me 
and  pressed  against  my  legs  with  piteous  whines.  I 
looked  down,  and  found  it  was  a  dog.  Such  a  dog ! 
Never  in  my  life  had  I  seen  so  pitiful  a  cur.  Thin 
and  lank,  spindle-legged,  and  so  emaciated  that  his 
ribs  were  all  outside,  and  covered  with  a  pink-white 
hide  ;  he  was  a  perfect  albino  of  a  dog.  In  race  he 
was  a  terribly  diluted  bull-dog,  and  one  pink  eye  gazed 
trustfully  at  me  out  of  a  black  surrounding,  the  only 
bit  of  color  upon  his  ungainly  person.  He  shivered 
and  whined  and  waved  an  emaciated  tail,  and,  when 
I  went  on,  he  followed  me  as  close  as  if  he  were  an 
ancient  retainer.  I  felt  that  he  reflected  discredit 
upon  me,  and  I  vainly  endeavored,  by  suggesting  rats, 
to  lure  him  into  byways. 

When  I  reached  Mrs.  Macgruder's,  I  sneaked  into 
the  house,  and  left  him  whining  and  shivering  on  the 
steps.  I  took  off  my  overcoat  in  my  office,  and,  stir- 
ring the  fire,  sat  down  in  its  blaze.  Unfortunately  I 
heard  that  wretched  dog  howl  outside,  till  at  last  I 


THE   STORY   OF   AGEE   SANG  LONG.       lOI 

could  bear  it  no  longer,  so  I  opened  the  door  and  let 
him  in.  He  required  no  pressing  invitation,  but  sat 
contentedly  in  the  humblest  place  by  the  fire,  and 
gazed  at  me  with  blinking  eyes,  his  jaws  open,  and 
his  tongue  finely  displayed.  If  ever  I  saw  a  dog 
smile,  that  was  the  dog,  and  he  beat  the  floor  with 
his  tail  in  a  way  I  knew  was  meant  to  be  complimen- 
tary and  grateful. 

I  don't  know  why  I  thought  of  Agee  Sang  Long  as 
I  gazed  into  his  melancholy  eyes,  but  I  felt  instinc- 
tively that  these  two  belonged  together.  So  the  next 
morning,  after  a  breakfast  such  as  he  never  dreamed 
of  in  all  his  wildest  dog-dreams,  I  took  him  to  my 
Chinese  friend.  She  looked  at  us  without  surprise, 
and  accepted  him,  when  offered  by  me,  as  another 
bit  of  fatality. 

"  He'll  be  company  for  you,  Agee,"  I  urged,  "  and 
I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  were  a  good  watch-dog." 
This  I  remarked  doubtfully,  the  ancient  retainer  hav- 
ing brought  no  reference  as  to  character.  Nor  was 
his  pedigree,  as  exhibited  in  his  countenance,  reassur- 
ing ;  but,  somehow,  he  looked  trustworthy,  and  in- 
stantly proved  to  be  a  dog  of  no  prejudice,  by  cuddling 
up  to  Agee  and  holding  out  a  paw,  until  the  little 
woman  took  it  in  one  of  her  hard-worked  hands. 

"Goo'  doggee,"  she  said,  and  looked  gratefully  in- 
to his  pink  eyes. 

Whether  it  was  instinct  or  a  trick,  we  never  knew, 
but  he  was  only  happy  when  he  could  cuddle  up  to 
some  one  who  would  hold  his  paw.  At  night,  when 
Agee's  work  was  done — she  scrubbed,  washed  and 
ironed,  and  did  chores  for  a  living — she  locked  the 
door,  and  then  she  and  her  dog  sat  by  the  fire,  side 
by  side,  he  with  an  affectipnate  paw  in  her  left  hand, 
while  her  right  held,  upside  down,  the  breviary  she 
could  not  read. 

Beside  them  on  a  chair,  so  close  that  none  of  its 


I02       THE   STORY   OF  AGEE  SANG  LONG. 

delicious  strains  could  be  lost,  the  music-box  ground 
out  "The  Beautiful  Blue  Danube,"  Agee  listening 
reverently.  This  music-box  was  her  joy.  After  years 
of  toil  she  had  saved  twenty  dollars,  and,  not  without 
deep  reflection,  she  spent  ten  in  a  burial  lot — for 
she  longed  to  rest  peacefully  in  death,  she  who  in  life 
had  been  so  tossed  about — and  the  rest  she  invested 
in  this  precious  music-box.  It  is  unnecessary  to  say 
that  she  was  cheated,  for  it  is  the  privilege  of  civili- 
zation to  get  the  better  of  heathens.  However,  she 
listened  to  "  The  Beautiful  Blue  Danube "  and 
"Coming  thro'  the  Rye  "with  profound  joy,  heath- 
endom and  Christendom  battling  in  her  breast  some- 
times, when  she  yearned  to  consider  the  music-box  as 
something  divine.  But  Christendom  conquered,  for 
she  was  a  Christian. 

Years  and  years  ago  she  had  been  converted,  and 
every  Sunday  morning  she  trotted  to  the  cathedral 
with  her  prayer-book,  that  she  could  not  read,  clasped 
to  her  Chinese  breast,  and  as  surely  as  the  martyrs  of 
old,  she  suffered  persecution  on  the  way.  The  people 
frightened  her,  but  particularly  the  children,  and  she 
only  felt  safe  and  at  peace  kneeling  on  the  stone 
floor,  with  her  head  bowed  on  her  breast,  and  her 
yellow  hands  folded  humbly.  Then  it  seemed  to  her 
as  if  she  were  not  so  very  different  from  the  people 
about.  To  be  sure,  they  would  edge  away,  and  some- 
times, in  the  interval  of  prayer,  a  hard  Irish  face 
glared  contemptuously  at  her,  but  she  expected  no 
better.  There  was  peace  here  in  the  light  of  the 
gleaming  candles  on  the  high  altar,  and  the  sunlight 
falling  through  the  beautiful  gold  and  scarlet  win- 
dows, out  of  which  people  with  kind,  divine  faces 
looked  down  upon  their  poor  sister,  not  clad  in  scar- 
let and  gold  and  azure,  but  ugly  and  forsaken,  and 
yet  not  so  far  removed  from  them,  as  God  sees  men, 
their  deeds  and  suffering. 


THE   STORY   OF  AGEE   SANG   LONG.       IO3 

Forty  years  before,  a  Salem  sea-captain  had  brought 
her  from  China  as  nurse  to  his  little  child,  and  some- 
how she  stranded  on  civilization,  and  never  returned 
to  her  Celestial  Kingdom.  She  was  utterly  alone  in 
the  world,  not  a  woman  of  her  race  in  any  place 
around,  and  society  was  banded  against  her.  The 
ladies  of  Irish  extraction,  who  took  in  washing  and 
scrubbed,  persecuted  her  for  daring  to  do  the  same. 
They  did  her  all  the  mischief  they  could,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  all  but  killing  her.  Ill-smelling  powders 
were  thrown  into  her  room,  gunpowder  was  put  in 
her  coal,  and  water  on  her  firewood  ;  her  cat  was  poi- 
soned, and  a  sick  sparrow  she  saved  from  wind  and 
weather,  was  freed  from  its  cage  and  flew  away.  She 
did  not  complain,  she  did  not  think  of  revenge,  and — 
oh,  for  the  narrow-mindedness  of  such  a  wretched 
Chinese  ! — she  saved  the  life  of  her  worst  little  perse- 
cutor. 

It  seemed  as  if  Agee  Sang  Long  turned  the  tide  of 
my  ill-luck,  for,  from  that  day,  patients  began  to  drop 
in  slowly,  and  so  it  was  a  week  or  two  before  I  saw 
her  again.  She  was  such  a  frail  creature,  full  of 
rheumatism,  and  she  had  a  heart  trouble  which  I  felt 
was  serious. 

It  was  a  glorious  December  afternoon  when  I 
stepped  briskly  into  Paris  Court,  to  inquire  after  Agee 
and  our  mutual  friend,  to  whom  she  had  given  the 
extraordinary  name  of  Mowa.  I  felt  that  life  was 
worth  living,  I  had  had  a  run  of  two  patients ;  one 
of  whom,  I  distinctly  remember,  was  a  considerate 
coal-heaver,  whose  skull  was  temporarily  damaged  by 
a  brother  in  trade. 

I  stepped  into  Paris  Court,  just  concluding  that  the 
world  was  a  beautiful  and  satisfactory  place,  when  a 
creature  crossed  the  sunshine  like  a  ragged  shadow, 
and  stood  in  my  path — a  woman  like  a  nighthawk,  a 
bird  of  ill  omen.    A  pale,  sullen  face,  framed  by  rough 


104   THE  STORY  OF  AGEE  SANG  LONG. 

red  hair,  half  hidden  by  a  rusty  shawl,  looked  into 
mine.  She  was  a  ruin  of  cheap  finery,  and  some  good 
looks,  and  she  was  young.  As  I  opened  the  gate  of 
No.  2,  this  woman  came  up  behind  me. 

"Are  you  going  in  there?"  she  asked,  and  hesi- 
tated. 

I  turned,  and  her  worn  eyes  held  mine. 

"  Yes.     Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  " 

"For  me?  Yes."  Then  she  added  with  unex- 
pected violence :  "  No,  you  can  do  nothing.  God 
couldn't  help  me." 

I  turned  from  her. 

"Wait,"  she  cried.  "There's  a  Chinese  woman 
down  there — lives  there.  You  know  her?  Is  she 
kind  or  is  she  cruel  ?  " 

"  She  is  a  good  woman,"  I  replied,  surprised,  "  and 
she  is  very  kind." 

"  She  ought  to  be  bad ;  the  world  is  bad  to  her," 
the  girl  muttered. 

"She  is  better  than  many  a  Christian.  What  do 
you  want  of  her?"  I  asked,  peremptorily. 

"  If  she  were  no  better !  "  the  woman  exclaimed,  with 
a  mirthless  laugh ;  and  without  answering  my  ques- 
tion, but  with  a  strange,  searching  look  out  of  those 
worn  eyes  that  had  seen  awful  things,  she  turned  and 
shuffled  away,  a  blot  on  the  sunshine. 

I  opened  Agee's  door,  deep  in  thought,  when,  to 
my  amazement,  I  heard  a  baby's  voice. 

"  Why,  Agee  Sang  Long !  "  I  cried.  For  there  she 
sat  on  her  accustomed  cricket  near  the  stove,  and  she 
held  a  baby  in  her  arms.  Mowa  sat  before  her, 
thrusting  an  unheeded  paw  nearly  into  her  face,  and 
devoured  by  jealousy,  and,  as  usual,  the  music-box 
was  spinning  out  "  The  Beautiful  Blue  Danube."  As 
I  looked  at  the  baby  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  so 
patient  a  little  creature  before.  It  was  a  baby  with  a 
past,  and  it  had  known  trouble.     Though  it  was  en- 


THE   STORY   OF  AGEE   SANG   LONG.        IO5 

veloped  in  an  ancient  shawl  of  Agee's,  it  was  unmis- 
takably a  beggar.  But  it  was  appreciative,  and  liked 
music,  for  it  smiled  at  the  music-box  with  a  strange, 
Sphinx-like  expression  in  its  clear  eyes.  But  the 
most  extraordinary  sight  was  Agee  herself,  for  she 
was  laughing,  and  it  was  the  first  time  I  saw  her  ex- 
press an  emotion  of  mirth.  There  was  no  merriment 
in  her  eyes,  but  her  mouth  was  widely  distended,  ex- 
hibiting gums  and  tongue  and  teeth  to  full  advantage. 

No  sooner  did  she  see  me  than  she  struggled  to  her 
feet,  the  baby  nearly  capsizing  her, 

"  Him  mine  !  "  she  cried  in  triumph.  "  Him  lef 
at  de  doo'  las'  nigh',  Lookee,  docto';  him  nice 
babee." 

She  put  him  in  my  arms  as  if  she  were  conferring 
a  favor,  then  gazed  joyously  at  us  both,  while  the 
neglected  Mowa  rubbed  against  me,  with  a  pathetic 
desire  to  be  noticed.  I  looked  into  the  poor  baby's 
eyes,  and  vaguely  thought,  "  I  have  seen  those  eyes 
before."  Then,  of  a  sudden,  it  all  flashed  across  me, 
and  I  saw  again  the  woman  whose  worn  eyes,  full  of 
a  bad  past,  had  held  mine.     Now  I  understood. 

"  Shall  you  send  him  to  the  Orphans'  Home, 
Agee  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Me  keepee  babee,"  she  answered,  with  some  re- 
proach. "Me  workee  for  babee.  Me  hab  monee. 
Me  makee  a  gen'leman  ob  babee." 

The  future  gentleman  becoming  restless  with  me, 
he  stretched  out  two  soft  arms  to  be  taken  by  Agee. 
Never  shall  I  forget  the  joy  and  pride  with  which 
she  received  him. 

"  Him  my  babee  !  "  she  cried,  enraptured,  hugging 
him  tight.  For  the  first  time  in  forty  years  a  human 
creature  showed  her  love ;  a  creature  weaker  than 
herself  clung  to  her  for  protection,  and  the  mother 
instinct,  that  nature  gives  even  to  a  poor  Chinese, 
made  her  strong  and  happy. 


I06        THE   STORY   OF  AGEE   SANG  LONG. 

When  I  left  them,  Agee  was  again  sitting  on  her 
cricket,  rocking  the  baby  to  sleep,  and  singing  to  it 
some  unearthly  song,  of  Chinese  origin  probably. 
Mowa's  head  had  found  a  resting-place  on  her  lap, 
and  he  kept  time  with  his  tail.  Ah !  she  was  a  dif- 
ferent person  now,  Agee  Sang  Long.  She  had  an 
object  in  life. 

How  hard  she  worked  to  make  both  ends  meet. 
She  denied  herself  everything  to  buy  warm  clothing 
for  the  baby,  and  she  gave  Mowa  a  bite  when  she 
was  very  hungry  herself.  Her  rheumatism  was  bad, 
and  she  had  queer  pains  inside,  she  told  me  ;  but  that 
could  not  mar  her  great  content. 

She,  who  had  always  been  so  lonely  and  deserted, 
noticed  that  now,  when  she  left  the  house,  a  wild,  wan 
creature  would  appear  suddenly  and  dog  her  steps. 
Agee  imagined  that  this  person  desired  to  speak  to 
her,  so  she  lingered  on  her  way  to  give  her  a  chance ; 
but  the  other  only  retreated  in  haste,  her  poor  rags 
fluttering  in  the  chill  air. 

"  She  be  a  unfotnit  lady,"  Agee  said,  with  much 
delicacy,  describing  her  to  me. 

It  was  Christmas-time,  and  Agee  Sang  Long,  being 
a  person  of  family  now,  determined  to  celebrate  the 
day.  She  worked  harder  than  ever,  supposing  that 
were  possible,  and  though  the  rheumatism  was  very 
bad,  it  could  not  subdue  her.  On  Christmas  eve, 
after  she  had  washed  all  day,  she  came  home  through 
the  heavily  falling  snow,  and  proceeded  to  scrub  her 
own  floor  until  it  shone.  She  washed  the  baby,  and 
then  she  turned  Mowa  into  a  monument  of  soap-and- 
water  wretchedness.  Having  arrayed  herself  in  her 
poor  best,  she  made  the  baby  fine,  tied  him  into  a 
chair  for  safety,  then  turned  him  temporarily  around, 
with  his  back  to  the  Christmas  surprise  in  store. 

Mowa  whined  and  was  restless.     He  sniffed  at  the 


THE  STORY  OF  AGEE  SANG  LONG.        lO/ 

window  and  growled  at  the  door,  but  Agee  did  not 
notice  him. 

[  At  last  her  surprise  was  complete.  She  clapped 
her  hands  and  laughed  ;  then  limped  to  the  baby, 
caught  him  in  her  arms,  gave  him  a  great  hug  as  a 
Christmas  present  for  herself,  and  turned  him  about 
so  that  the  whole  glory  burst  at  once  upon  his  blink- 
ing eyes. 

The  baby  crowed  with  joy,  and  Mowa  barked. 
Agee  Sang  Long  laughed  until  the  tears  stood  in  her 
black  eyes  and  rolled  down  her  furrowed  face.  Such 
a  Christmas  tree  !  It  stood  in  a  flower-pot,  and  was 
nearly  two  feet  high,  and  nine  little  candles  made  it 
a  scene  of  extraordinary  brilliancy.  And  that  wasn't 
all.  On  one  branch  hung  a  collar  for  Mowa,  and  on 
the  other  a  rattle  and  a  rubber  elephant  for  the  baby, 
while  three  gingerbread  men  leaned  unsteadily  and 
sadly  against  the  branches,  as  if  they  rather  suspected 
what  fate  had  in  store  for  them. 

Mowa,  much  protesting,  was  decorated  with  the 
new  collar,  the  baby  swung  the  rattle  and  clutched 
the  elephant,  and  the  music-box  played  *'  The  Beauti- 
ful Blue  Danube."  Then  Agee  sat  down  on  her 
cricket  with  the  baby  in  her  arms,  while  Mowa,  in 
front  of  her,  looked  fondly  into  her  yellow  face,  and 
then  they  proceeded  to  eat  the  gingerbread  men,  each 
after  his  own  fashion. 

Mowa  stopped  in  his  feast  to  turn  to  the  window 
and  growl.  Discovering  that  the  source  of  ginger- 
bread had  run  dry,  he  ran  toward  the  door  and  growl- 
ed, then  trotted  back  to  Agee,  looked  at  her,  wagged 
his  tail,  and  ran  back  toward  the  door.  There  he  sat 
down  on  his  haunches,  with  a  look  upon  his  mongrel 
countenance  which  plainly  declared  that  he  had  no 
opinion  of  the  human  kind. 

There  was  a  hesitating  knock  at  the  door,  unheed- 
ed except  by  Mowa ;   then  the  door  opened,  and  a 


I08        THE    STORY   OF  AGEE    SANG  LONG. 

woman  crossed  the  threshold — a  terrible  woman,  like 
a  blight  and  a  curse.  Her  rags  were  powdered  with 
snow,  and  she  shook  with  cold,  but  she  only  looked 
at  the  child  in  Agee's  arms.  It  was  a  wild,  hungry, 
jealous  gaze,  and  she  turned  to  Agee  with  but  half- 
suppressed  violence  in  her  pale  face. 

"  I  am  cold ;  let  me  come  in,"  she  said,  harshly. 

The  candles  on  the  tree  flickered  and  blew  out  in 
the  gust  of  icy  wind  sweeping  across  the  threshold  ; 
the  lamp  on  the  chimney  smoked  and  burned  dark, 
the  dog  sniffed  uneasily  at  the  stranger,  and  even  the 
baby  turned  away  from  her  with  instinctive  fear. 

A  white  rage  filled  the  woman's  face  as  the  little 
Chinese  patted  the  frightened  child  and  tried  to  re- 
store his  equanimity  by  a  sight  of  the  elephant.  His 
sobs  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and  so  she  put  him  on 
the  floor,  where  he  lay  doubled  up.  trying  to  find  com- 
fort in  his  toes.  Then  she  went  towards  the  woman, 
who  still  stood  by  the  open  door. 

"  Come  in  and  ge'  warm,  you  poo'  ooman,"  she 
said,  kindly,  and  touched  her  ragged  shawl. 

The  woman  shrank  away  with  aversion,  but  she 
came  in  the  room,  nevertheless. 

"  I  no  do  you  harm,"  Agee  Sang  Long  said,  sadly, 
feeling  the  aversion  to  which  she  was  accustomed. 

The  woman  sank  down  on  a  chair  by  the  stove,  and 
stared  at  the  child. 

"  Le'  me  dry  yoo  shawl,"  Agee  ventured,  humbly. 

"  Leave  me  alone,"  the  other  interrupted,  shaking 
her  rough  head,  from  which  the  shawl  had  fallen. 

"  Sal  I  gib  'oo  a  cup  of  tea  ?  "  Agee  persisted.  "  Ity 
warmee  'oo." 

The  woman  turned  on  her  in  a  frenzy.  "  Leave 
me  alone,  you  rat;  I  hate  you." 

Agee  Sang  Long  shrunk  back,  more  in  dismay  than 
terror.  She  looked  at  the  woman  with  deprecating 
reproach,  then  stooped  and  took  the  baby  in  her  arms, 


THE  STORY   OF  AGEE   SANG  LONG.        IO9 

as  if  to  assure  herself  of  some  human  love.  Mowa, 
the  faithful,  crept  close  to  her  and  held  out  his  paw ; 
and  so  the  three  stood  together  in  the  shadow  of  the 
extinguished  Christmas  tree,  and  gazed  wistfully  at 
their  enemy. 

Some  strong  feeling  was  evidently  at  work  in  the 
woman.  "Let  me  take  the  child,"  she  cried,  with 
sudden  passion. 

"  He  be  Taid,"  Agee  Sang  Long  implored,  clasp- 
ing the  little  one  tighter  to  her  breast. 

"  'Fraid  of  his  mother ! "  the  woman  shrieked,  threw 
herself  upon  the  poor  creature,  and  tried  to  tear  the 
child  out  of  her  grasp. 

*'  Don',  goo'  ooman  ;  he's  so  li'le  babee  ;  he  'f'aid," 
Agee  urged,  trying  to  shelter  the  poor  thing. 

"  You  wretch  !  you  heathen  wretch  !  "  the  woman 
screamed.  "  Dare  to  keep  him  from  me  !  "  And  the 
next  instant  she  had  him  in  her  arms,  and  hugged 
and  kissed  him  with  half-mad  passion.  "  I  can't  live 
without  him.  I  gave  him  up  because  we  were  starv- 
ing," she  cried,  wildly.  "  And  so  I  left  him  at  your 
door.  But  they  told  me  here  in  the  house,  that  you 
were  teaching  him  your  dirty  Chinese  ways.  But  you 
sha'n't  have  him,"  she  cried,  spurning  with  her  foot 
Agee  Sang  Long,  who  kneeling  before  her,  clasped 
the  ragged  skirts  with  piteous  hands. 

"  Leave  him  to  me,  dea'  unfotnit  lady,"  she  cried, 
the  tears  streaming  down  her  face.  "  Lib  wid  me 
an'  I  workee  for  '00  till  I  diee.  But  leave  him.  Him 
all  I  ha'  in  dis  wi'  worl'." 

*'  I'd  rather  he'd  die  with  me." 

She  turned,  and  the  baby  in  her  arms  struggled  out 
of  the  shawl  and  held  out  his  arms  to  his  Agee  Sang 
Long.  As  if  that  culminated  the  creature's  fury,  she 
snatched  the  child  back,  and,  with  a  cruel  blow,  flung 
Agee  Sang  Long  to  the  floor,  and  vanished  into  the 
night. 


no       THE   STORY  OF  AGEE   SANG  LONG. 

A  couple  of  hours  later  I  came  down  Paris  Court, 
for  I  had  promised  Agee  to  look  at  her  tree,  but  I 
was  belated.  As  I  turned  into  the  court,  the  snow 
beating  against  my  face,  a  dog  bounded  up  to  me, 
whining.  It  was  Mowa.  *'  Why,  old  boy,  what  is  it  ?  " 
I  asked,  trying  to  pat  his  blunt  head.  But  he  es- 
caped, ran  forward,  looked  back  to  see  if  I  was  com- 
ing, and  never  stopped  until  I  stood  in  the  doorway 
of  the  familiar  room. 

In  the  middle  of  the  floor  I  saw,  by  the  light  of  the 
dim  lamp,  an  undistinguishable  heap  that  filled  me 
with  sudden  terror  and  pain,  though  I  knew  that  it  was 
only  a  poor  Chinese.  I  knelt  down  and  lifted  her 
unconscious  head,  then  laid  the  frail  little  figure  on 
the  bed.  It  was  so  hard  to  bring  her  back  to  life, 
and  I  almost  despaired,  when  suddenly  her  eyes 
opened,  and  she  looked  across  my  shoulder  at  the 
open  door,  where  a  wretched  woman  stood  with  a 
baby  in  her  arms.  I  recognized  both,  and  I  under- 
stood. 

A  flicker  of  joy  crossed  Agee's  face  as  she  saw  the 
baby.  Without  a  word  I  rose,  took  the  child  from  its 
mother,  and  placed  its  soft  cheek  against  Agee's. 

I  turned  to  the  woman.  "  Behave  yourself,  or  leave 
the  room,"  I  said,  sternly,  "for  you  are  in  the  presence 
of  death." 

"  I  am  sorry  now,"  she  muttered,  uneasily.  "  I  did 
her  wrong. — You  see  I've  come  back.  I  didn't  think 
I  hurt  you  so  bad  when  you  fell." 

"  Did  she  hurt  you,  Agee  ? "  I  asked,  gently.  I 
saw  that  the  poor  forsaken  creature  was  dying  of  the 
heart-disease  that  I  feared,  but  evidently  it  had  been 
brought  on  by  some  great  shock. 

"  Oh,  no,  no !  "  Agee  Sang  Long  murmured,  and 
laid  her  face  against  the  baby's,  and  touched  its  soft 
cheek  with  her  lips.  "  She  do  me  goo',  for  she  his 
mudder,  poo'  unfotnit  lady," 


THE   STORY  OF  AGEE   SANG   LONG.        HI 

She  became  dimly  conscious  that  a  faithful  paw 
was  stretched  up  to  her ;  she  groped  toward  it  with 
one  weak  hand,  then,  turning  toward  the  baby  with  a 
contented  smile,  she  fell  asleep,  to  awaken  in  a  land 
where  men  are  equal  before  God. 


JOHN  STERLING'S  COURTSHIP. 
I. 

I  AM  John  Sterling.  I  was  first  mate  on  the  Sally 
Tompkins  and  Joe  Snow  was  second  mate,  when  we 
were  scouring  the  Atlantic  for  mackerel,  it  being 
mackerel  season. 

Joe  Snow  and  I  had  shipped  on  the  Sally  Tomp- 
kins for  the  first  time  ;  and  this  was  the  first  time  we'd 
met,  though,  on  comparing  notes,  we  found  that  he 
hailed  from  Oversea  and  I  from  East  Oversea,  about 
two  miles  of  dreary  sand  stretch  apart,  on  Cape  Cod. 
We  also  found  that  his  bunk  was  just  over  mine  in 
the  Sally  Tompkins ;  by  the  same  token  I  soon  dis- 
covered that  he  had  nailed  a  woman's  picture  just  in 
sight  of  his  bright  black  eyes,  when  he'd  wake  of  a 
morning. 

In  all  honesty  and  truth  this  made  me  feel  precious 
lonely,  for  1  had  nothing  to  look  at  except  the  sagging 
of  the  mattress  over  me,  for  young  Joe  had  a  good 
solid  weight,  though  he  was  as  spry  as  a  squirrel. 

I  made  believe  not  to  notice  her  at  first,  and  I  kinder 
shut  my  eyes  in  passing,  being  rather  tall,  for  I  said 
to  myself,  "  He  ain't  the  man  as  'd  want  his  sweet- 
heart stared  at  by  every  fellow,  and  he  can't  help  her 
being  jest  there." 

However,  I  did  catch  sight  of  her  once,  and  it  was 
the  sweetest  face  in  all  God's  world,  with  eyes  so  kind 
and  a  mouth  so  tender,  that  it  made  my  heart  ache, 

(112) 


JOHN  STERLING'S   COURTSHIP.  11.3 

though  I  liked  young  Joe  none  the  less  for  the  woman 
who  loved  him. 

One  day  there  came  up  a  gale  that  made  the  Sally 
Tompkins  curtsy  to  an  extent  that  was  a  credit  to 
4ier  manners,  and,  in  the  midst,  down  came  young  Joe's 
beauty,  and  young  Joe  after,  much  against  his  will. 
I  picked  her  up  in  a  twinkling  and  held  her  out  to 
him.  "  My  sister,"  says  he,  by  way  of  introduction, 
and  dusts  her  as  a  man  only  dusts  the  picture  of  his 
sister.  It  was  kind  and  fond,  you  know,  but  it  wanted 
something. 

God  forgive  me,  but  I  was  glad  !  I  stood  quite  lost 
in  a  suppressed  joy,  when  luckily  the  Sally  Tompkins 
gives  a  lurch,  and  I  decide  to  postpone  consideration 
of  young  Joe's  sister. 

"  So  that's  your  sister  ?  "  I  asked  the  next  time  we 
had  a  minute  to  talk.  This  time  I  looked  at  her 
straight  in  the  face. 

"  Yes,  that's  Sis.  She's  an  angel,"  says  he  coolly, 
as  if  it  was  a  matter  of  course. 

"  What's  her  name  ?  "  said  I,  clearing  my  throat  a 
bit,  for  it  would  get  husky  like. 

"Oh,  Olive." 

"  Does — does  she  live  in  Oversea  ? " 

"  Yes." 

*'  Perhaps  some  day  I'll  see  her,"  I  went  on,  dread- 
ful rash. 

Then  says  this  young  Joe,  perfectly  thoughtless, 
"  I  hope  she'll  see  you,  for  I  want  her  to  know  the 
kindest,  dearest  fellow  in  the  world." 

Then  he  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and,  some- 
how, I  said  to  myself,  looking  into  his  smiling  eyes, 
"  If  the  sister  is  anything  like  the  brother,  and  if  she 
don't  like  you,  then  I  shall  be  sorry  for  you,  John 
Sterling." 

From  that  time,  the  ice  being  broken  between  us, 
young  Joe  talked  a  good  deal  about  his  sister. 
8 


114  JOHN  STERLING'S   COURTSHIP. 

"  There's  only  one  fellow  in  the  world  good  enough 
for  her,"  he  said  at  last,  his  eyes  flashing.  Then  he 
laughed,  showing  all  his  handsome  white  teeth,  "  I'm 
going  aft,  old  fellow,"  and  he  leaped  up  the  gangway. 
"  I  don't  like  to  be  below  when  the  waves  play  higl^ 
jinks  with  Sally.     Come  'long !  " 

I  didn't  come  for  a  minute,  for  his  thoughtless 
words  had  made  me  sore. 

"  So  there's  some  one  chosen,"  I  thought,  and  my 
heart  was  like  a  lump  of  lead.  Then  said  I  to  my- 
self :  "  Don't  be  a  moon-calf,  John  Sterling !  A  pretty 
girl  like  that  don't  wait  for  your  coming." 

I  climbed  up  the  gangway  as  steadily  as  the  wild 
tumbling  and  tossing  of  the  Sally  Tompkins  would  let 
me,  for  we  had  struck  about  as  ugly  a  bit  of  weather 
as  I'd  seen  for  many  a  day.  A  dull  leaden  sky  lay 
over  the  sea,  and  the  spray  and  the  waves  came  dash- 
ing and  swishing  over  the  deck,  and  the  Sally  rose 
and  fell  in  the  trough  of  the  sea,  as  if  every  moment 
was  to  be  her  last. 

Said  I  to  myself  just  then,  "  What  ain't  taut  and 
fast  on  this  ship  I  don't  give  a  copper  for,  and  a  man 
'd  better  look  to  his  footing  aboard  this  craft,"  when 
I  heard  a  cry  that  wrung  my  heart,  for  I  knew  the  voice. 

"  Man  overboard !  "  came  in  a  shout  of  horror,  for 
it  seemed  death — certain  death.  Then  followed  a 
trampling  of  feet,  a  wild  confusion  of  voices,  just 
heard  through  the  storm  and  the  flapping  of  sails,  as 
the  schooner  came  up  to  the  wind.  I  was  at  the  ship's 
side  in  a  bound,  and  saw  in  the  gray  dim  distance,  a 
speck  that  a  moment  before  was  a  face  that  had  smiled 
into  mine.  Her  life  and  his  and  mine  I  lived  in  a 
flashing  second,  and  then,  though  they  tried  to  hold 
me,  I  was  overboard,  and  before  I  could  think,  the 
Sally  Tompkins  was  tossing  far  away  from  me,  and  I 
was  struggling  with  the  waves. 

Heaven  be  praised,  by  a  miracle — for  God  was 


JOHN   STERLING'S   COURTSHIP.  US 

good — I  reached  him  in  that  terrible  sea,  as  he  was 
sinking. 

They  launched  a  lifeboat,  at  the  risk  of  their  lives, 
and  saved  us.  It  is  strange  that,  of  the  two,  I  should 
have  been  the  one  to  be  unconscious  and  light-headed. 
From  the  moment  we  were  saved  I  knew  nothing,  till 
I  looked  up  one  day  and  saw  young  Joe  bending  over 
me,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  while  the  Sally  Tompkins 
glided  along  as  smooth  as  you  please. 

"  So  you're  really  saved,  young  Joe  t  "  said  I. 

"  And  so're  you,"  he  cried.  "  God  bless  you,  you 
brave  man ! " 

"  Don't,"  I  murmured  ;  for  I  was  very  weak,  and 
could  bear  but  little. 

Now,  curiously  enough,  the  first  thing  I  saw  as  I 
turned,  was  her  picture  nailed  just  in  sight  of  me.  I 
used  to  lie  there  hours  at  a  time,  wondering  why  it 
was  there,  watching  it  and  dreaming  about  it  in  a 
helpless  way. 

But  I  was  very  weak,  and  of  no  more  use  aboard 
than  a  land-lubber  in  a  squall,  and  when  we  came  in 
reasonable  sight  of  land,  and  the  low  green  shores 
melted  into  gray  sand  and  blue  sea,  I  said  to  the 
skipper  that  he'd  best  land  me  along  with  his  mack- 
erel, and  p'r'aps  I  could  find  at  East  Oversea  what 
1  hadn't  yet  found  on  that  tidy  bit  of  timber,  the  Sally 
Tompkins,  namely,  health. 

"  Young  Joe,"  said  I,  as  I  was  leaving — "  I'm  going 
to  East  Oversea." 

"  East  Oversea  is  two  miles  to  the  east'ard  of 
Oversea,"  he  remarked,  with  much  cheerfulness. 

"  You  said  you  had  a  grandfather  and  a  great-aunt 
living   there,"   I  said,  a-leading  him  on. 

"  Grandfather  Snow  and  Great-aunt  Jerusha— yes." 

"  Shall  I  give  'em  your  love  ? "  said  I.  "  I  may 
happen  in  at  Oversea  some  day." 

*'  No,"  said  he,  with  a  grin  far  from  respectful. 


II 6  JOHN   STERLING'S  COURTSHIP. 

"  He's  seen  right  through  you,  John  Steriing,"  I 
thought,  and  turned  away,  all  scarlet. 

"  Look  here,  old  boy,"  he  says,  and  gives  my  shoul- 
der a  hearty  grip  ;  "  there  ain't  much  love  lost  'tween 
grandfather  and  Aunt  Jerusha  and  me.  So  don't  go 
outer  your  reasonable  way  to  tell  such  a  whopper. 
But  you  can  go  and  see  Sis,  and  if  you  tell  her  you're 
John  Sterling,  I  guess  that'll  do.  And  all  I  got  to 
tell  you,  old  boy,"  says  he,  as  if  I  was  a  land-lubber- 
boy  goin'  on  a  first  journey  (he  was  awful  bold)  "  is, 
there's  only  one  fellow  good  enough  for  her  in  this 
world,  and  don't  you  be  so  blamed  bashful." 

I  sighted  him  again  as  I  stood  on  the  wharf,  while 
he  leaned  over  the  Sally  Tompkins,  smiling  at  me  and 
at  all  the  world,  like  the  rising  sun. 

I  thought  over  what  he  said,  and  couldn't  exactly 
understand  his  meaning,  except  that  another  man  'd 
been  luckier  than  I.  As  for  bashfulness,  why,  it 
wasn't  in  his  place — no,  'twasn't — to  talk  of  bashful- 
ness. "  It  'ud  be  money  in  your  pocket,  young  Joe, 
if  you'd  be  a  bit  more  so  yourself,"  thinks  I,  dread- 
ful sore,  and  swung  round  and  steered  toward  East 
Oversea." 

II. 

THERE  were  four  Overseas,  and  in  the  dark  they 
were  so  much  alike  you  couldn't  have  told  one 
from  the  other. 

To  be  sure,  East  Oversea  had  a  railroad  station, 
but  that  was  so  far  from  making  it  a  center  of  traffic 
that  the  single  horse  attached  to  the  mildewed  vehi- 
cle in  the  shadow  of  the  modest  station,  had  worn  four 
permanent  holes  in  the  ground  waiting  for  customers 
that  never  came. 

A  single  grass-grown  road  formed  the  one  street, 
and  the  United  States  mail  rarely  consisted  of  more 


JOHN   STERLING'S   COURTSHIP.  117 

than  one  letter,  which  was  a  satire  on  the  leather  bag 
with  a  patent  lock  which  national  generosity  furnished 
for  Oversea  correspondence. 

The  train  rumbled  leisurely  to  the  East  Oversea 
station — even  the  trains  ceased  to  be  in  a  hurry  near 
the  Overseas — and,  to  the  amazement  of  the  station- 
master,  a  passenger  alighted. 

The  station-master  was  supported  in  his  duties  by 
a  couple  of  antiquated  fishermen  and  the  owner  of 
the  mildewed  chariot.  All  four  were  chewing  tobacco, 
and  three  were  whittling  sticks,  as  the  passenger  ap- 
proached. 

"  Lor,'  ef  that  ain't  John  Sterling !  "  they  said,  with 
one  accord ;  then,  turning  to  each  other,  remarked, 
dispassionately,  "  Ain't  he  pale,  though  ?  " 

The  owner  of  the  chariot  did  not  bid  for  custom, 
for  it  was  an  unwritten  law  of  East  Oversea,  that  for 
a  native  Overscan  to  return  home  in  its  stately  peril, 
was  to  put  on  "  airs."  That  was  left  for  the  unwary 
stranger,  who  shot  in  through  the  front,  for  the  suffi- 
cient reason  that  a  previous  owner  had  permanently 
nailed  up  the  doors  because  the  latches  had  ceased  to 
catch. 

The  animal  that  drew  this  vehicle  pricked  up  his 
ears  in  a  vain  hope  that  a  customer  would  release  him 
from  bondage,  but  he  sank  into  apathy  at  sight  of 
John,  for  he  knew  his  man-. 

"  Anna  Maria  ain't  grown  any  fatter  since  I've 
been  gone,  has  she  ? "  John  said,  bestowing  a  friendly 
thump  on  the  animal's  protruding  ribs. 

Now  this  was  not  to  be  denied  ;  so  John  was  silent, 
and  looked  kindly  at  Anna  Maria.  He  had  grave, 
pleasant  blue  eyes,  and  when  he  could  so  far  be  false 
to  his  national  melancholy  as  to  smile,  it  was  like  the 
sun  rising  on  a  sad  landscape. 


Il8  JOHN   STERLING'S   COURTSHIP. 

"  And  how's  mother  ? "  he  asked  the  assembled 
company,  gathering  up  his  carpet-bag. 

"  Pretty  middlin',"  they  remarked,  still  in  chorus. 

"  Guess  I'll  go  and  see  her,"  John  suggested,  as  if 
it  were  a  new  and  startling  departure. 

"Perhaps  you'd  better,"  the  chorus  answered,  ap- 
provingly ;  and  so  John  went. 

John's  mother  had  the  best  house  in  East  Oversea. 
It  stood  on  a  proud  sand  bank,  and  was  surrounded 
by  a  row  of  weeping  willows.  From  the  back  one 
could  see  the  Atlantic  roll  in  as  near  as  the  Oversea 
bar,  and  from  the  front  there  was  the  view  of  the 
street,  and  at  night  could  be  counted  the  patient  lights 
of  seven  lighthouses  and  the  life-saving  station.  The 
smooth,  treacherous  beach  lay  like  a  silver  line  edg- 
ing the  shore,  quite  unbroken  save  where  the  moulder- 
ing beams  of  a  wreck  struggled  out  of  the  engulfing 
sand. 

The  people  of  Oversea  were  of  a  silent,  moralizing 
turn,  presenting  to  jokes  a  stolid  front,  but  enjoying 
greatly  the  sad  things  of  life. 

John,  quite  overtopping  the  willows,  entered  his 
mother's  house  by  the  kitchen  door,  and  was  greeted 
by  the  pleasing  smell  of  frying  doughnuts,  that  had  a 
certain  general  resemblance  to  Mrs.  Sterling  herself, 
for,  like  them,  she  was  fat  and  round  and  pleasing. 
It  is  perhaps  only  just  to  say  that  such  a  departure 
from  Oversea  characteristics  was  due  to  the  good 
lady's  not  being  the  real  native-born  Oversea  article. 

Mrs.  Sterling,  being  so  amazed  at  the  unexpected 
sight  of  John,  and  her  thoughts  being  also  engaged 
with  the  doughnuts,  she  several  times  endangered  his 
life  by  trying  to  prod  him  with  the  frying  fork.  John 
sat  down  in  the  wooden  rocking-chair  and  answered 
all  questions  methodically,  while  he  stroked  the  cat 
that  had  leaped  on  his  knees,  and  watched  his  bus- 
tling mother,  and  then  looked  out  at  the  sea  glittering 


JOHN   STERLING'S   COURTSHIP.  1 19 

in  the  sunshine,  framed  by  the  scarlet  geraniums  that 
bloomed  on  the  window-sill. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  no  woman  ever  looks 
so  pretty  as  when  she's  doing  her  woman's  work." 

"  Now,  John,  what  put  that  in  your  head  ?  "  she 
asked,  in  great  perplexity.  "  I've  heard  such  things 
said  before,  John ;  and  'twas  always  the  unmarried 
kind  as  said  it." 

John  grew  red  to  his  short,  straight  hair,  and  was 
silent, 

"  A  man  as  is  unmarried,"  Mrs.  Sterling  continued, 
gracefully  rescuing  several  beautifully  brown  dough- 
nuts from  the  spluttering  fat,  "  an'  if  he's  seen  a  girl 
he  likes,  sets  her  in  his  mind  a-dustin',  a  cookin',  an' 
a-scrubbin',  jest  as  he  sees  her,  bless  his  innocent 
heart !  in  her  Sunday  clothes." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  anybody  but  you,  mother," 
John  said  hurriedly,  and  stroked  the  cat's  outraged 
fur  the  wrong  way.  "  There  was  a  young  fellow 
aboard  the  Sally  Tompkins  from  Oversea — young  Joe 
Snow — do  you  know  his  people,  mother  ? "  and  John 
couldn't  help  the  healthy  glow  that  half  betrayed  him. 

Mrs. Sterling,  v/ith  her  arms  akimbo,  rejoiced  at  a 
fruitful  topic  of  conversation,  and  went  into  a  long  and 
detailed  account  of  the  Snow  family,  taking  in  by  the 
way,  biographies  of  the  various  side  branches,  and 
was  in  a  fair  way  of  bringing  up  with  Noah's  ark  in 
her  reminiscences,  when  John  came  to  his  own  rescue. 
Not  a  word  of  Olive  all  this  time. 

"  Do  you  know  Grandfather  Snow,  and  Great-aunt 
Jerusha?"  he  asked,  artfully. 

"  No  ;  only  I  heard  they're  about  the  tryingest  old 
folks—" 

"  And — and — "  John  began,  in  great  agitation. 

"What,  John?" 

"  Nothing,  mother.     I  guess  I'll  take  a  walk  before 


I20  JOHN   STERLING'S   COURTSHIP. 

tea.  Guess  I'll  jest  go  to  Oversea.  Got  any  errand 
in  Oversea,  mother  ?  " 

"  Lord  'a  mussy,  John !  why,  you've  only  jest 
come  ! "  his  mother  cried,  and  shook  her  head.  Did 
I  ever  have  an  errand  in  Oversea — now  did  I  ?  In 
Oversea,  of  all  places  !  " 

"  Well,  then  I  won't  go,"  John  declared,  and  sat 
down  with  an  abruptness  which  was  equally  unex- 
pected. 

"  John,"  his  mother  said,  anxiously,  as  she  went  up 
to  him  and  patted  his  head,  "  you're  sure  you  haven't 
had  a  bit  of  a  sunstroke,  John,  dear  ? " 


III. 

BUT  John  did  go  to  Oversea.  He  had  a  way  ol 
disappearing  out  of  the  house,  and  though  he  al- 
ways steered  east,  north,  or  south,  somehow  he  always 
landed  in  Oversea — which  lay  west — and  that  with  a 
surprised  expression,  as  if  he  hadn't  expected  it  at  all. 

It  took  him  a  long  time  and  cost  desperate  efforts 
before  he  summoned  up  courage  to  penetrate  to  the 
heart  of  Oversea,  which  was  the  town-pump.  One 
day,  after  a  dozen  fruitless  trudgings  over  two  miles 
of  grass-grown  highway,  with  a  sea-breeze  stirring  the 
modest  weeds  and  flowers  along  the  path,  and  the 
blackberry  vines  clinging  to  the  gray  sand,  he  reached 
the  blue  pump  once  more,  and  debated  in  his  modest 
heart  how  to  find  Olive. 

Oversea  was  a  place  from  which  young  men  fled 
with  enthusiasm,  and  its  population  consisted  entirely 
of  very  old  folks  and  very  little  folks.  Samples  of 
the  latter  were  playing  about  the  blue  pump,  and, 
with  the  engaging  playfulness  of  infancy,  were  squirt- 
ing water  over  each  other. 

Now  it  is  certainly  true  that  a  naturally  bashful 


JOHN   STERLING'S   COURTSHIP.  121 

man  will  meet,  well,  anything  dreadful,  rather  than 
run  the  gauntlet  of  irresponsible  infancy. 

With  one  accord  they  solemnly  stared  at  him  ;  for 
a  masculiae  stranger  was  an  event  in  Oversea.  They 
were  a  sandy-haired,  bony  little  race,  with  colorless, 
shrewd  eyes,  and  were  preparing  very  young  to  follow 
in  the  melancholy  characteristics  of  their  parents. 

Standing  about  the  pump,  they  made  audible  and 
unflattering  remarks  as  to  his  personal  appearance. 
John  smiled  on  them  with  a  slight  exaggeration  of 
friendliness,  perhaps,  in  his  efforts  to  break  the  ice, 
when  an  urchin  in  cotton  breeches,  bare  feet,  and 
no  hat,  remarking,  in  a  melancholy  way,  "  What  be 
you  a-grinnin'  at,  stranger?"  being  himself  impervi- 
ous to  the  lighter  emotions,  so  completely  routed 
John,  that  he  fled,  and  never  took  breath  again  till 
East  Oversea  was  reached. 

Oversea  always  had  a  Joel  Snow,  just  as  it  had  a 
pump  and  a  meeting-house.  The  Snows  were  a  slow, 
methodical  race,  and  they  generally  died  with  great 
regularity  at  the  age  of  threescore  and  ten.  When 
the  masculine  Snows  couldn't  fish,  they  kept  the  one 
little  shop,  which  contained  everything  that  the  mod- 
est heart  of  Oversea  desired.  A  crazy  bell  rang  as 
the  shop  door  was  opened,  and,  there  being  one  low 
step  downward,  the  unwary  always  shot  into  the  pres- 
ence of  the  then  Joel  Snow,  till  one  day,  by  an  aston- 
ishing convulsion  of  nature,  they  shot  into  the  presence 
of  Olive  instead. 

Though  Oversea  was  most  decidedly  blind  to  beauty, 
it  had  a  dim  consciousness  that  it  liked  to  trade  with 
Olive.  She  would  turn  her  bright,  smiling  face  on  a 
querulous  old  woman  as  if  the  fate  of  the  world  were 
involved  in  a  cent's  worth  "o'  somethin'."  She  had 
a  cheery  word  for  the  old  fishermen  who  sat  about  the 
pump  evenings,  and  in  the  gloaming  told  of  the  storms 


122  JOHN   STERLING'S   COURTSHIP. 

they  had  seen,  and  the  wrecks,  and  that,  after  all, 
'twasn't  young  folks  as  knew  what  danger  was. 

Oversea  was  so  full  of  old  people  that,  perhaps, 
Olive's  young  face  might  have  grown  old  in  the  con- 
templation of  so  many  wrinkles,  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
the  children.  To  be  sure,  there  was  young  Joe,  her 
brother,  but  he  was  always  away ;  so  there  was  only 
herself  to  tend  the  little  shop  and  wait  on  the  old 
grandfather  and  great-aunt.  Grandfather  was  ninety 
and  great-aunt  was  ninety-two.  In  winter  they  sat  on 
either  side  of  the  kitchen  stove,  and  in  summer  in  the 
shop,  for  a  glimpse  of  "  life."  They  were  like  two 
aged  winter  apples  with  wrinkled  pink  cheeks.  They 
were  stone-deaf,  and  horribly  jealous  of  Olive,  and 
always  prepared  to  do  battle  with  the  unknown  who 
was  to  come  "a-courtin'." 

From  the  altitude  of  ninety  all  others  were  so  young, 
that  there  wasn't  an  aged  man  in  the  village  whom 
they  hadn't  nearly  turned  out-of-doors,  suspecting  un- 
hallowed designs  on  Olive.  They  made  the  house 
hot  for  young  Joe  and  for  young  Joe's  occasional 
friends  who  came  to  Oversea  and,  without  exception, 
fell  in  love  with  Olive.  Tokens  of  this  hopeless  pas- 
sion always  took  the  shape  of  molasses  candy,  bought 
of  Olive  in  the  morning,  and  presented  to  her  in  the 
evening,  as  a  Paris  novelty,  on  the  kitchen  veranda. 
Here  hopeless  love  chewed  it  alone,  while  the  old 
folks  in  the  kitchen  glared  out  furiously,  and  Olive 
knitted,  smiling  in  a  motherly  way. 

One  day  she  had  a  letter  from  Joe  which  set  her 
to  dreaming,  for  youth  will  have  its  rights.  The  let- 
ter said  :  "  When  you  see  John  Sterling  in  Oversea, 
be  good  to  him,  for  he  saved  my  life  at  the  risk  of 
his  own  ;  he  is  just  the  bravest,  best  fellow  in  the 
world  ; "  and  a  lot  more,  written  with  boyish  gratitude 
and  enthusiasm. 

So  Olive  dreamed  a  little  for  the  first  time  in  her 


JOHN   STERLING'S   COURTSHIP.  1 23 

young  life,  and  longed  to  see  Joe's  hero,  never  think- 
ing that  the  bravest  of  men  had  not  been  able  to 
muster  courage  enough  to  penetrate  farther  than  the 
town-pump. 

One  late  afternoon  the  old  people  sat  beside  the 
kitchen  stove,  dozing.  They  had  a  way  of  roaring  at 
each  other — in  supposed  whispers — and  in  the  way  of 
conversation  they  had  roared  themselves  speechless. 
A  heavy  stride,  heavy  with  an  artificial  boldness,  came 
down  the  veranda,  and  then  a  heavy  hand  knocked 
modestly  at  the  door.  As  no  one  answered,  the  in- 
truder, after  the  fashion  of  Oversea,  turned  the  door- 
knob, and,  unexpectedly  to  himself,  bolted  in. 

Two  very  old  people  were  dozing  on  eitbir  side  of 
the  stove.  Aunt  Jerusha's  cap  had  slipped  to  one 
side,  giving  her  a  rakish  appearance,  while  Grand- 
father Snow's  spectacles,  pushed  high  on  his  forehead, 
looked  as  if  they  were  keeping  watch.  Grandfather 
was  snoring  deeply,  while  Aunt  Jerusha  kept  up  an 
accompaniment  of  little  shrill  gasps. 

For  a  moment  John  Sterling  stood  speechless — it 
was  John — when,  by  some  unaccountable  accident, 
the  old  people  awoke  and  stared  at  him  with  little 
eyes  full  of  wrath. 

"  Sister  Jerusha,"  the  old  man  roared,  in  a  supposed 
whisper,  "he's  come  a-courtin'." 

"  I  want  to  see  Miss  Olive,"  John  shouted,  blush- 
ing violently  at  having  to  roar  out  his  dearest  wish. 

"  Ain't  he  got  a  sly  face  .?  "  said  Miss  Jerush^. 

"  Ef  you  don't  go  away,  I'll  set  the  dog  on  you," 
grandfather  shrieked. 

"  Go  away  I  go  giway  !  "  Miss  Jerusha  added,  wav- 
ing her  hands  at  him.     "  Don't  come  a-courtin'  here." 

"You  don't  think  I've  come  a-courtin'  you?"  John 
remarked,  in  great  disgust.  Aunt  Jerusha  didn't 
hear,  so  she  nodded  vigorously.  "  I'll  be  hanged," 
John  murmured  to  himself,  "  if  I  know  when  these 


124  JOHN   STERLING'S   COURTSHIP. 

women-folks's  vanity  ends.  Well,  I  ain't  comin' 
a-courtin',''  he  roared  through  his  hands,  as  if  he  were 
in  high  gale  at  sea. 

"  Wa'al,  so  you  ain't  comin'  a-courtin'  ?  "  the  old 
man  piped  in ;  and  John  nodded.  "  An'  who  be  ye, 
anyhow  ? " 

"I'm  John  Sterling," 

"Can't  hear." 

"John  Sterling." 

"  Can't  you  open  your  jaws  ? " 

"John  Sterling." 

"  Wa'al,  John  Sterling,  glad  to  see  you ;  but  ef 
that's  all  you've  got  to  say,  guess  we  won't  mind  your 
going."  . 

"  I  came  to  see  your  grand-daughter." 

"  Courtin'  ?"Miss  Jerusha  interposed,  acidly. 

"Oh,    she   ain't   much   to   see,"   grandfather   an 
swered  ;  "  and  what's  the  use  o'  wastin'  time  ?     She 
don't  care  for  what  ain't  dreadful  young  or  dread- 
ful old.     Besides,  she  ain't  in." 

"  Oh,  well,  then,"  said  John,  with  a  deep  sigh,  and 
shut  the  kitchen  door  on  the  two  old  people,  who 
roared  and  chuckled  and  winked  their  little  eyes  at 
each  other.  John  turned  down  the  road  in  a  stunned 
condition  from  disappointment  and  much  shouting. 

If  he  had  come  courting  indeed  ! 

A  great  glow  swept  up  from  his  foolish  old  heart 
at  the  bare  thought.  "  I  mustn't  forget  that  there's 
only  one  man  in  the  world  good  enough  for  her,"  he 
thought,  bitterly. 

The  sun  was  just  setting,  and  half  of  its  golden 
disk  had  sunk  into  a  golden  sea.  The  faintest, 
softest  breeze  swept  across  the  land,  and  the  only 
sound  that  broke  the  stillness,  was  the  chirp  of  the 
crickets.  A  rough  stone  wall  ran  along  a  bit  of  the 
road,  to  which  the  blackberry  vines  clung  with  ripen- 
ing fruit,  and  the  golden-rod  swayed  in  its  shadow. 


JOHN   STERLING'S   COURTSHIP.  125 

John,  buried  in  his  reflections,  looked  up  hastily  at 
the  sound  of  children's  voices  and  shrill  young  laugh- 
ter and  his  eyes  became  eager  in  their  gaze.  It  must 
be  a  prosaic  man  who  forgets  how  his  sweetheart 
looked  when  first  they  met.  Poor  John  never  forgot. 
She  was  sitting  on  the  low  stone  wall,  and  his  infantile 
enemies  were  playing  about  her,  evidently  subdued. 

She  watched  the  children  with  smiling  eyes,  while 
she  knitted  busily  at  a  big  blue  stocking,  but  the  smile 
faded  away  as  she  looked  up  and  saw  John  passing  by. 

Yes,  passing  —  poor  weak  John  !  The  stocking 
dropped  into  her  lap,  and  she  followed  him  with  wist- 
ful dark  eyes.  "  I'm  sure  that  is  John  Sterling,  but 
he  doesn't  know  me,"  she  thought,  with  a  feeling 
nearly  of  pain. 

John  strode  down  the  road  in  hot  haste.  He  pitied 
himself  in  a  vague  way.  He  conjured  up  a  picture 
of  that  too  virtuous  man  who  alone  was  worthy  of  her, 
till  he  clinched  his  fists  and  cried,  "  Confound  him  !  " 
with  such  vigor,  that  he  startled  a  couple  of  cows  graz- 
ing in  a  field  beside  the  road,  and  they  looked  up  at 
him  with  soft,  reproachful  eyes. 

At  a  turn  of  the'road  he  pulled  up  sharp,  and  called 
himself  a  fool,  with  a  short  and  to  the  point  expletive, 
and  go  back  he  would. 

And  go  back  he  did,  slowly,  very  slowly ;  and  when 
he  at  last  reached  her,  he  had  nothing  to  say  but, 
"  You're  Olive  Snow,  are  you  not  ?  " 

He  did  not  see  how  her  dark  eyes  brightened  at 
sight  of  him. 

"  And  you  are  John  Sterling,  I  am  sure.  I  was 
certain  you  would  look  just  as  you  do,"  she  said,  and 
put  her  sun-browned  hand  in  his. 

He  was  very  awkward  and  silent,  but  that,  she  re- 
flected, was  an  eccentricity  of  heroisni.  Certainly 
he  dropped  her  hand  with  an  alacrity  far  from  polite, 
and  having  looked  at  her  gravely  with  his  deep  blue 


126 


JOHN   STERLING'S   COURTSHIP. 


eyes — such  dear  blue  eyes,  poor  Olive  thought — he 
then  gazed  over  her  head  and  sighed.  How  could 
Olive  know  how  bitter  he  was  with  fate  at  that  mo- 
ment !  "  If  I  see  her  again  I'm  a  darnder  fool  than 
I  was  jest  now  in  passing,"  he  thought. 

He  roused  himself  enough  to  answer  Olive's  little 
remarks,  each  preceded  by  a  faint  sigh  of  disappoint- 
ment. John  sighed  also,  and  talked  of  Grandfather 
Snow's  amiability  and  Aunt  Jerusha's,  till  poor  Olive's 
eyes  were  wide  open  with  wonder.  At  last  he  looked 
about  him  in  a  helpless  way,  and  then  sighed  again, 
and  it  being  perfectly  evident  that  if  he  really  had 
something  to  say  he  couldn't  say  it,  John  went  away 
with  the  pleasing  feeling  that  he  was  a  hopeless  fail- 
ure in  general  conversation. 

When  Olive  came  home,  the  whole  family  roared 
at  her. 

"  Some  one's  ben  here ;  'twas  a  man,"  Aunt  Jeru- 
sha  piped  up. 

"  He  said  his  name  's  John  Sterling,"  grandfather 
continued ;  "  but  he  ain't  come  a-courtin',"  he  con- 
cluded, as  if  to  dispel  any  such  pleasing  illusion.  "  I 
asked  him.  Says  I,  '  Air  ye  comin'  a-courtin'  ? '  '  No,' 
says  he,  '  I  ain't  comin'  a-courtin','  " 

Olive  knew  the  old  folks'  ways,  and  she  had  always 
laughed  at  them.  But  to-day — oh,  to-day  was  differ- 
ent !  She  turned  to  the  open  window  and  watched  the 
golden  and  scarlet  gleam  of  the  lighthouses,  and  the 
scarlet  and  gold  were  blurred  in  the  seeing. 

Something  like  a  sob  came  to  her  throat,  and  she 
fought  with  it  and  conquered.  The  old  folks  watched 
her  greedily,  but  she  said  nothing,  only  she  was  very 
silent,  and  at  last  she  hurried  up  to  her  room. 

She  understood  all  now,  she  thought,  her  face  wet 
with  tears.  What  wonder  he  seemed  so  embarrassed 
in  his  talk  with  her,  and  so  relieved  to  go  at  last  1 
He  did  not  know  the  old  people.     He  might  have 


JOHN   STERLING'S   COURTSHIP.  12/ 

even  misunderstood  their  dreadful  questions,  and 
supposed — and,  at  the  bare  idea  Olive  sobbed  as  if 
her  heart  would  break — and  supposed  that  they 
wished  him  to  come  courting  her. 

"  He  will  never  come  again !  "  she  cried  at  last, 
"he  will  never  come  again.  I  hope  he  never  will," 
she  murmured,  but  very  hopelessly.  Time  had 
passed,  and  it  had  grown  quite  dark.  An  uncertain 
hobbling  upstairs  and  a  tremulous  thump  at  the  door 
brought  her  to  herself,  and  there  stood  the  two  old 
people  and  demanded  their  gruel. 

"  You  are  very  old,  poor  dears,"  Olive  thought, 
conscience-stricken,  and  led  them  downstairs,  and 
made  the  gruel  and  tucked  in  their  napkins. 

''  He  !  he !  hope  he  won't  come  courtin'  again," 
said  grandfather,  in  a  stentorian  whisper ;  "  courtin' 
spiles  the  gruel." 


IV. 

NO  sooner  did  John  reach  home  than  he  felt  that  he 
had  been  a  grievous  failure.  Running  off  at  a 
tangent,  as  many  a  bashful  man  does,  he  yearned  to  go 
back,  and  to  display  himself  in  that  amiable  light 
which,  if  it  could  not  work  destruction  in  Olive's 
heart,  would  leave, perhaps,  a  mild  flavor  of  regret,  in 
spite  of  that  other  "  blasted  paragon,"  as  John  called 
him. 

Until  that  fateful  day,  John's  long  and  sinewy  per- 
son had  been  arrayed  in  garments  whose  fashion  was 
to  him  a  matter  of  profound  indifference.  However, 
the  day  after  John's  meeting  with  Olive,  Mrs.  Sterling 
received  a  shock.  In  the  garret  stood  a  wardrobe 
containing  the  best  garments  of  her  deceased  hus- 
band. Mrs.  Sterling,  climbing  up  to  these  heights, 
met  a  ghost,  at  sight  of  whom  she  shrieked,  and  would 


128  JOHN   STERLING'S   COURTSHIP. 

have  fallen  down  the  narrow  stairs  if  the  ghost  hadn't 
saved  her  with  two  vigorous  hands. 

"Oh,  John!"  she  sobbed,  "you've  got  on  the 
clothes  your  father  wore  when  he  came  a-courtin'  me, 
and  you're  as  like  him  as  two  peas  in  a  pod." 

Love  had  done  this  thing — it  had  made  John  vain. 
He  looked  down  at  himself  with  innocent  pride,  and 
felt  that  even  if  he  did  not  make  an  impression,  his 
clothes  must. 

Perhaps  some  of  the  courage  that  attended  that  by- 
gone courtship  still  clung  to  the  garments,  for  John 
stepped  down  the  road  at  quite  a  brisk  pace,  and  in 
no  time  at  all  he  was  gazing  into  Olive's  little  shop 
through  its  modest  window. 

Oversea  was  not  proof  against  good  clothes,  and 
as  fashions  there  were  always  ten  or  twenty  years  be- 
hindhand, John's  black  broadcloth,  in  which  he  felt 
as  much  at  home  as  if  he  had  been  armed  cap-h-pie, 
was  regarded  with  much  respect  by  the  youth  of  Over- 
sea. The  ladies  of  Oversea,  in  fact,  forsook  their 
household  pursuits  to  gaze  at  him  surreptitiously  from 
back  doors.  Rumor  had  it  that  he  was  a  summer 
boarder,  than  whom,  to  the  simple  mind  of  Oversea, 
no  one  could  be  more  opulent  or  more  foolish. 

Then  the  crazy  shop  bell  set  up  a  din,  and  the  un- 
known disappeared  into  Olive's  store.  The  younger 
generation  flattened  its  nose  against  the  window  for 
further  information, 

A  veritable  ghost  would  not  have  caused  more  con- 
sternation than  John  did,  Olive,  coming  into  the 
kitchen,  turned  quite  pale,  and  the  old  folks,  in  their 
usual  place  by  the  stove,  glared  at  him  with  angry 
eyes. 

John  shook  two  old  reluctant  hands,  and  held 
Olive's  one  blissful  moment,  and  having  fired  off  all 
his  ammunition,  stood  helpless  in  the  enemy's  camp. 


JOHN    STERLING'S   COURTSHIP.  1 29 

"  I  came  to  call  on  you,"  he  shouted  at  last  to 
grandfather. 

"  Don't  see  why ;  you  were  here  yesterday,"  grand- 
father retorted,  with  extreme  frankness. 

"  He's  comin'  a-courtin',"  Aunt  Jerusha  shrieked. 
"  Look  at  his  clothes !  'Twas  in  jest  such  clothes 
Nephew  Joel  came  a-courtin'  Mary  Jane  Hyde,  she 
who  was  your  mother,  Olive." 

"  Aunt  Jerusha,  dear  aunt,  do  please  stop ! "  Olive 
cried,  piteously. 

Perhaps  that  lively  old  lady  had  a  momentary  touch 
of  humanity,  for  she  concluded  with  indignant  mum- 
blings, while  grandfather  remarked,  "  Don't  be  a 
durned  fool,  Jerusha.     What  air  you  a-takin'  on  for  ? " 

"Please  go  away,"  Dorothy  implored,  turning  to 
poor  John.  "  You  see,  the  old  people  are  jealous  of 
every  one  who  comes  here." 

Whether  it  was  that  the  courage  of  the  old  love 
battles  fought  in  these  famous  garments  was  conta- 
gious, whether  it  was  that  John  felt  hopeless,  and 
having,  in  his  opinion,  nothing  to  lose,  so  dared  any- 
thing, certain  it  is  that  John  grew  bold. 

"  What'll  they  do  if  you  get  married  ? "  he  asked. 

*'  I  marry  ? "  Olive  repeated,  in  surprise,  turning 
from  Aunt  Jerusha,  whom  she  had  succeeded  in  quiet- 
ing. *'  Why,  if  I  ever  do  marry,  John  Sterling,  it  will 
be  after  those  to  whom  I  owe  duty  will  need  me  no 
more." 

"  He's  courtin' !  he's  at  it  again  ! "  Aunt  Jerusha 
burst  out,  with  gathering  venom. 

"  Then  he's  a  fool  for  waiting — that  young  man  o' 
yours,"  John  said,  bluntly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? — what  young  man  ?  " 

"The  man  you're  to  marry,"  John  cried,  in  a  burst 
of  rage  and  jealousy. 

"  I  marry }  Who  told  you  so  ? "  Olive  asked. 

"  Who  told  me  so  ?  "  John  repeated,  and  sat  down 
9 


I30  JOHN   STERLING'S   COURTSHIP. 

on  the  nearest  chair  for  reflection  and  support. 
"  Why,  young  Joe  said — " 

"  Why,  bless  you,  John  Sterling,  what  did  he  say  ?  " 
a  familiar  voice  cried,  while  the  shop  bell  shook  itself 
mad,  and  a  breath  of  the  freshest  sea-breeze  swept 
through  the  open  door. 

Sure  enough,  it  was  young  Joe  himself  who  stood 
in  the  open  door. 

"  Oh,  Joe  !  dear  Joe  !  "  and  Olive  hid  her  face  on 
his  shoulder. 

"  Halloo  !  little  girl,  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 
and  Joe  patted  her  head,  and  turned  with  some  sur- 
prise to  the  others.  "  And  what's  up  with  the  old 
'uns  ?  and — in  Heaven's  name,  John  Sterling,  perhaps 
you'll  explain.? " 

"  He's  comin'  a-courtin',"  Aunt  Jerusha  interposed, 
shrilly. 

"  Oh,  Joe  !  Joe  !  take  me  away,"  poor  Olive  sobbed ; 
then  she  looked  up  at  John  with  a  little  catch  in  her 
breath.  "You'll  forgive  them,"  she  murmured,  "for 
they  are  such  old,  old  people,  and  they  really  mean 
no  harm,"  and  she  turned  away ;  but  John  stood  in 
her  path.  "  I've  something  to  say  you  mayn't  like  to 
hear,"  he  said,  gravely;  "but  I  must  speak.  I  love 
you — oh  !  I  love  you  so  dearly,  Olive,  that  this  is 
all  a-torturing  me."  She  stood  before  him  with  her 
face  hidden  in  her  hands.  "  I  would  have  come 
a-courtin',"  he  faltered,  "  if — " 

"  If  what,  John  ?  "  Joe  asked. 

"  If — if  you  hadn't  said  that  there  was  only  one 
man  in  the  world  good  enough  for  her,"  John  an- 
swered, grimly. 

"  And  that's  true,  John,"  young  Joe  said,  and  laid 
one  hand  on  John's  shoulder,  and  slipped  the  other 
about  Olive's  waist. 

"  Don't  say  it  again  !  "  John  cried.     "  It's  enough 


JOHN  STERLING'S  COURTSHIP.  13 1 

for  me  to  lose  her.     I  deserve  better  of  you,  young  i 
Joe  !  "  he  exclaimed,  turning  upon  him.  \ 

Over  Olive's  face,  hidden  on  Joe's  shoulder,  there 
crept  a  blush  that  tinted  her  throat  and  neck  and  fair 
round  chin. 

"  Olive,  little  girl,"  and  Joe  smiled,  "  what  do  you 
think  of  this  man  ? "  But  Olive  would  not  look  up — • 
she  could  not  say  a  word.  "  Shall  I  speak  for  you, 
Olive  ?  Shall  I  tell  him  what  you  think  of  him  ?  " 
Joe  asked. 

Olive  hid  her  face  deeper  on  Joe's  shoulder,  and 
sobbed  a  bit. 

"  Why,  Olive,"  John  cried,  and  a  blissful,  heavenly 
light  dawned  in  his  great  dull  head,  "  and  wouldn't 
you  be  angry,  dear,  if  I  really  came  a-courtin'  ?  " 
Olive  peeped  up  from  Joe's  shoulder,  and  smiled  a 
little  and  sobbed  a  little.  "  Why,  Olive,  my  darling, 
there's  that  other  man,"  John  cried,  in  great  bewilder- 
ment, coming  very  near. 

"  That — that  other  man  is  you — John,"  Olive  fal- 
tered, and  though  John  was  the  bashfulest  man  in  the 
world,  he  held  her  in  his  arms  the  very  next  moment. 

"  Olive,"  said  Joe,  "  I'm  sure  you  and  John  don't 
need  me  any  longer." 

John  agreed  with  him.  He  felt  that  he  could  do 
his  own  courting  now. 

There  was  nothing  mean  about  young  Joe.  "  I'll 
tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  break  it  to  the  old  folks 
for  you."  He  turned  to  them  with  his  friendly  smile. 
"  I  said  I'd  break  it  to  you,"  he  explained. 

"  What  ?  "  they  asked,  with  wide-eyed  expectancy. 

"Olive's  going  to  marry,  and  you — "he  said, 
wickedly. 

"  Durn  you,  young  Joe,  have  it  out  1 "  shrieked 
grandfather. 

" — And  you've  been  doing  the  courtin'  1 " 


THE  PROFESSOR  OF  DOLLINGEN. 


THE  doctor's  hand  came  down  with  such  a  bang 
that  the  dominoes  before  him  leaped  up  in  con- 
sternation, and  the  students  at  the  next  table,  who 
were  smoking  and  drinking  over  a  noisy  game  of  cards, 
turned  to  see  what  the  matter  was.  The  professor's 
shaggy  eyebrows  twitched  nervously  over  his  absent- 
minded  gray  eyes  and  round  spectacles,  at  this  mani- 
festation of  the  doctor's  excitement. 

"  Yes,"  the  doctor  repeated,  "  an  idea !  " 
"  But,  my  friend,"  the  professor  began,  slightly  irri- 
tated, with  a  touch  of  superiority  in  his  tone,  "  don't 
agitate  yourself." 

"I  tell  you,"  the  doctor  continued,  with  an  angry 
glance  at  his  unconscious  neighbor — "  I  tell  you  it 
would  be  better  for  the  world,  if  pen,  ink  and  paper 
were  confined  to  an  elect  few.  It  is  the  misery  of  our 
age  that  every  boarding-school  chit  and  every  old  ped- 
ant,"— another  look — "consider  themselves  called 
upon  to  give  the  world  the  benefit  of  their  minds — bah  ! 
— on  one  hand  to  fill  the  circulating  libraries  with 
trashy  romances,  and  on  the  other  hand  to  publish 
works  which  are  but  the  accumulated  result  of  years 
of  reading,  given  to  the  world  as  original  because  the 
old  idiot " — another  look — "  has  forgotten  where  his 
mind  ends  and  other  men's  minds  begin.  Ugh," 
the  doctor  exclaimed,  in  utter  disgust. 
(132) 


THE   PROFESSOR  OF  DOLLINGEN.  133 

"  Hagen,  now — "  the  professor  again  began  im- 
patiently. 

"  I  swear,"  the  doctor  interrupted,  "  if  I  had  any 
control  of  the  literature  of  this  world,  I  would  make 
it  a  law  that  every  one  proposing  to  write  a  book  must 
come  before  some  proper  authority,  and  there  and 
then  show  that  he  has  at  least  one  good,  original  idea 
in  his  work.  Only  one  idea.  I  am  reasonable,  you 
see.  No  matter  how  simple  and  unpretending  that 
idea  might  be,  it  should  obtain  permission  for  the  book 
to  be  published,  I  know,  I  know — you  need  not 
speak,"  the  doctor  cried  in  a  passion — "  I  know  it  is 
a  quixotic  plan,  and  cannot  be  brought  about,"  "or 
where  would  you  be,  my  learned  friend  ?  "  he  thought, 
looking  scornfully  at  the  professor,  whose  face  ap- 
peared curiously  blurred  behind  the  clouds  of  smoke 
from  his  porcelain  pipe.  So  thinking,  with  the  scorn 
that  could  not  be  suppressed,  he  buried  his  face  in  the 
tankard  of  beer  before  him,  to  hide  his  emotions  in 
congenial  bitterness. 

"  Of  course  I  agree  with  you,"  and  the  professor 
took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  and  spoke  with  the 
impatience  natural  to  a  man  who  hates  to  be  a  lis- 
tener. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  don't ;  you  would  be  a  jackass  if  you 
did,"  Dr.  Hagen  said,  under  his  breath. 

"  What  I  wonder  at  is,  how  we  got  on  such  an  irri- 
tating subject." 

"  We  were  talking  of  your  book,  The  Progress  nf 
Lucifer"  the  doctor  answered,  with  a  malicious  twin- 
kle in  his  green  eyes. 

The  professor  drew  himself  up  and  frowned  at  the 
doctor.  "  Strange  !  "  he  cried,  "  strange  !  Had  we 
been  talking  of  some  frivolous  story,  it  would  seem 
natural ;  but  after  speaking  of  a  work  that  deals  with 
the  subtlest  truths  in  Nature — a  book  that  must  form 
an  epoch  in  literature,  upon  which  I  have  bestowed 


134         THE  PROFESSOR  OF  DOLLINcApJ. 

»■  ^    « 
the  ripest  thoughts  of  the  ripest  years  !  "  he  condUded, 
greatly  excited. 

"  Perhaps  the  thoughts  and  3'ears  are  over-ripe,  de- 
caying," the  doctor  muttered  with  much  contempt. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  " —  The  professor  had  the 
habit  of  absent-minded  people,  of  only  hearing  what 
he  chose  to  hear.  "  Recall  your  words,  sir,"  he  cried 
excitedly. 

The  doctor  was  caught,  and  in  his  confusion,  his 
face  turned  three  shades  deeper  red  than  his  usual 
color,  which  was  that  fine  crimson  to  be  expected  in 
a  choleric  gentleman  of  sixty.  He  was  a  little,  stunted 
man,  with  a  large  head  thickly  covered  by  a  crop  of 
short,  tightly-curled  gray  hair,  that  contrasted  most 
oddly  with  his  red  face,  out  of  which  two  green  eyes 
looked  defiantly  into  the  world  through  a  pair  of  gold 
spectacles.  As  for  the  mouth,  it  was  a  great  long  slit, 
firmly  pressed  together,  and  when  open,  it  revealed  a 
superb  set  of  teeth,  white,  strong  and  cruel. 

The  doctor  was  disgusted  with  himself — at  his  un- 
necessary stupidity;  but  instead  of  apologizing,  he 
half  rose  in  his  chair  and  sniffed  the  air  with  an  in- 
jured expression. 

"  Sir,  your  manner  is  an  insult,"  he  cried  to  his  en 
raged  companion. 

"  Sir,"  the  professor  retorted, — "  you  have  insulted 
me.  You  hate  success,  but  you  cannot  control  it.  I 
will  leave  the  world  to  judge  of  The  Progress  of  Lucifer  ; 
and  as  for  your  opinion,  I  hold  it  in  the  greatest  con- 
tempt." 

However,  Nature  had  never  intended  that  the  pro- 
fessor should  cope  with  the  doctor,  though  he  was 
certainly  twice  as  tall  and  twice  as  broad  as  the  little 
man.  Hatred  and  envy  he  was  indifferent  to,  so  long 
as  they  did  not  touch  his  literary  works,  of  which  each 
in  turn  was  his  world,  his  all.  He  was  a  very  learned 
man,  with  perhaps-  a  trifle  too  much  reverence  for 


THE   PROFESSOR   OF  DOLLINGEN.         I35 

past  wisdom,  and  a  want  of  toleration  for  new  ideas. 
In  certain  circles,  sacrilegious  young  men  did  call  him 
an  old  fogy  and  a  pedant,  but  the  wicked  remarks 
never  reached  his  ears.  Thus,  when  some  new  book 
of  his  was  to  be  reviewed,  faint-hearted  critics  took  off 
their  hats  before  the  long  words  and  ponderous  sen- 
tences, and  weakly  bade  the  top-heavy  stranger  "  God 
speed  "  into  a  new  world. 

When  the  professor  was  not  absent-minded,  there 
was  a  pleasant  light  in  his  gray  eyes  that  brightened 
the  heavy  features  and  swept  away  the  dazed,  far-off 
look,  like  a  fog  before  a  summer's  sun.  But  now  he 
was  trembling  with  wrath.  With  a  look  of  assumed 
firmness,  though  his  great  hands  shook,  he  grasped 
his  faithful  cotton  umbrella  and  his  well-worn,  tall  hat, 
and,  with  a  voice  choked  by  suppressed  passion,  said, 
as  ceremoniously  as  he  could  under  the  circumstances, 
"  After  such  language  on  your  part  I  cannot  again 
look  upon  you  as  a  friend.  Dr.,  Hagen,"  and  marched 
majestically  away,  with  his  long  pipe  under  his  arm, 
leaving  the  little  man  dumb  and  amazed. 

Just  as  he  reached  the  door  the  professor  paused. 
"  Waiter  !  "  As  that  light-footed  functionary  stood 
before  him,  the  professor  pulled  an  old,  time-worn 
purse  from  the  depths  of  his  breeches-pocket.  "  Wait- 
er, here  are  five  groschens  to  pay  for  two  glasses  of 
beer  for  that  gentleman  and  two  for  myself.  You 
may  keep  the  other;"  and  so  speaking,  while  the 
gratified  waiter  held  the  door  open,  as  if  for  the  exit 
of  a  whole  triumphal  procession,  the  old  man,  in  the 
happy  consciousness  of  being  a  generous  enemy  and 
heaping  coals  of  fire  on  the  doctor's  head,  walked  out 
into  the  chilly  autumn  air,  and  the  door  of  the  little 
inn,  with  its  contents  of  smoke  and  beer,  was  shut 
upon  him. 

The  professor  and  the  doctor  were  not  croqies. 
They  were  simply  two  odd  men,  who,  not  being  able 


136         THE  PROFESSOR   OF   DOLLINGEN. 

to  find  their  mates,  had  drifted  into  the  habit  of 
meeting  each  other  at  the  tavern  of  an  afternoon,  to 
smoke  a  pipe  and  drink  a  glass  of  beer  over  a  game 
of  dominoes.  The  professor  was  too  much  wrapt  up 
in  his  own  thoughts  to  be  a  very  intimate  friend  for 
anybody,  and  the  doctor  had  too  bad  an  opinion  of 
everybody  to  desire  to  be  an  intimate  friend. 

The  doctor  was  a  man  with  a  ceaseless,  secret  pain 
at  heart :  he  was  an  intensely  ambitious  man,  with  an 
ambition  directed  into  a  channel  which  was  forever 
closed  to  him.  His  profession  he  chose  from  neces- 
sity, but  the  dream  of  his  life  had  been  to  become  a 
great  writer :  it  had  remained  a  dream.  His  standard 
was  too  high  for  his  abilities,  a  lesser  one  he  disdained. 
So,  from  one  extreme  to  the  other,  he  remained  an 
obscure  physician  in  a  small  German  university  town, 
seeing  men  of  less  talent  than  himself  become  famous, 
looking  with  keen,  angry  eyes  behind  the  scenes  of 
their  daily  workings ;  recognizing  the  tinsel  and 
makeshifts  and  unreality,  till  his  whole  life  seemed 
flooded  with  scorn  and  misanthropy. 

"  Waiter  !  "  the  doctor  cried  grimly,  his  firm,  white 
teeth  set  on  edge — "  Waiter,  did  that — that — person 
pay  for  me  ?  "  he  asked,  pointing  with  his  thumb  over 
his  shoulder,  in  the  direction  of  the  professor. 

"  He  did,  sir,"  the  man  replied. 

"Then  he  made  a  mistake:  I  pay  for  both.  You 
can  keep  what  he  gave  you."  So  the  doctor,  in  his 
turn,  pulled  out  a  scantily-filled  purse  and  counted 
four  groschens  into  the  astonished  waiter's  hand. 
The  doctor  was  a  misanthrope,  and  gave  only  the 
exact  sum,  but  the  professor  always  had  a  penny  to 
spare,  if  only  for  the  grateful  look  on  a  man's  face. 

So  the  doctor,  to  his  own  satisfaction,  balanced  his 
enemy's  coals  of  fire,  and  having  relieved  his  feelings, 
took  up  his  silver-headed  cane  and  the  round  cap 
with  a  tremendous  shiny  visor,   and  strode  out  of 


THE   PROFESSOR   OF   DOLLINGEN.         137 

doors,  muttering  to  himself  and  bestowing  all  manner 
of  maledictions  on  every  object  in  the  world,  among 
which,  after  the  manner  of  misanthropes,  he  was  care- 
ful not  to  forget  himself. 


II. 

IN  the  mean  time  the  professor  shambled  along 
through  the  chilly  air  in  the  direction  of  his  lodg- 
ing, muttering  to  himself  and  gesticulating  with  his 
umbrella  in  a  very  angry  fashion.  His  poor  old  heart 
beat  with  rage  and  grief  to  think  how  that — that — 
crocodile  of  a  doctor  had  spoken  of  him,  and,  by  im- 
plication, of  his  Progress  of  Lucifer,  the  work  that 
was  child  and  wife  and  life  to  him.  Day  and  night, 
he  had  worked  at  it.  Many  a  breaking  dawn  had 
discovered  him  at  his  writing-desk,  poring  over  musty 
manuscripts,  trying  with  half  dazed  brain,  to  under- 
stand crabbed  old  characters,  or  plunged,  to  all  ap- 
pearance beyond  rescue,  in  philosophical  speculations 
of  the  most  abstruse  kind. 

Now  he  shambled  along  till  he  reached  the  narrow 
street  with  the  chronic  lack  of  sunlight  and  the  old, 
old  houses,  in  one  of  which  he  lived  over  a  confec- 
tioner's shop,  which  was,  curiously  enough,  a  sore  and 
constant  temptation  to  him,  for  he  had  a  passion  for 
sweets.  The  confectioner,  a  round-faced,  fat  man  in 
a  white  apron  and  a  paper  cap,  looked  with  great 
pride  on  his  lodger  overhead,  whom  he  called  "  com- 
rade "  in  select  and  intimate  circles — not  owing  to  the 
professor's  sweet  tooth,  but  because  he,  the  confec- 
tioner, considered  himself  something  of  a  literary 
character,  as  he  wrote  all  the  mottoes  for  his  candies. 
The  good  man's  friendship  did  not  end  here,  but 
often  and  often  he  invited  the  professor  into  the  little 
back  room  as  he  passed,  and  treated  him  there  to  a 


138         THE   PROFESSOR  OF  DOLLINGEN. 

glass  of  maraschino  and  a  piece  of  cake,  then  lingered 
about  respectfully,  to  catch  whatever  of  wisdom  must 
fall  from  the  lips  of  so  distinguished  a  man. 

Now,  however,  so  great  was  the  professor's  indig- 
nation, that  neither  cake  nor  maraschino  could  retard 
the  heavy,  wrathful  steps  with  which  he  ascended  the 
stairs  to  his  solitary  room. 

The  professors  of  the  university  of  Dollingen  were 
not  very  royally  paid,  but  they  had  the  infinite  satis- 
faction of  starving  in  excellent  company.  Our  pro- 
fessor had  a  title  twice  as  long  as  his  purse,  and  he 
was  content.  He  liked  to  have  his  belongings  at 
arm's  length  about  him,  so  that  he  could  reach  some 
dusty  tome  of  an  early  morning,  without  getting  out 
of  bed,  by  just  stretching  one  long,  gaunt  arm  out  of 
the  bed-curtains  to  the  book-shelves  above  his  head. 

It  was  a  low-studded  room,  with  two  huge  windows, 
whose  diamond-shaped  panes  were  favorite  resorts 
for  spiders  and  flies.  In  one  corner,  discreetly  hid- 
den by  a  green  baize  curtain,  stood  the  bed,  and  in 
another,  the  great  wardrobe  that  the  professor  had 
inherited  from  his  mother.  The  walls  were  covered 
with  books ;  books  lay  on  the  painted  floor  and  on 
the  chairs ;  they  even  encroached  on  the  sacred 
precincts  of  the  wardrobe  ;  and  as  for  the  wash-stand, 
why,  the  pitcher  stood  in  familiar  proximity  to  that 
learned  book  of  Fabricius,  the  Holy,  Sagacious  and 
Learned  Devil. 

But  everything  in  the  familiar  room  was  blurred  to 
the  old  man's  sight.  In  great  agitation  he  threw^ 
himself  into  the  leathern  arm-chair  at  his  work-table, 
and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  Suddenly,  moved 
by  a  curious,  uncontrollable  impulse,  he  thrust  aside 
the  heap  of  papers  and  references  that  littered  the 
desk,  and  from  whose  every  page  Satan  and  Lucifer 
and  the  Devil  peeped  forth  in  his  heavy,  irregular 
handwriting. 


THE   PROFESSOR   OF  DOLLINGEN.         139 

"  Fool !  fool !  "  he  cried  passionately,  then  laid 
his  hands  upon  them  again  with  a  certain  tenderness, 
as  a  fond  father  tries  to  shield  the  child  of  his  heart, 
whom  some  danger  threatens. 

But  there  was  no  peace  in  store  for  the  poor  pro- 
fessor. His  head  ached  furiously  and  his  hands  and 
feet  were  like  ice.  With  a  shiver  he  started  up  and 
paced  the  room  with  hurried,  irregular  strides. 

"  I — I  have  taken  cold,"  he  muttered  to  himself, 
chafing  his  gaunt  hands,  and  continued  muttering,  as 
he  strode  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  Damn  him  !  damn  him  ! "  he  cried  at  last,  standing 
stock  still  and  shaking  his  fist  at  an  imaginary  doctor. 
"  But  I  defy  him  !  I'll  write  a  pamphlet  against  him  : 
I'll — I'll  unmask  him,  the  envious  wretch  !  "  and  over 
the  professor's  face  there  spread  a  triumphant  smile. 
"  I'll  write  a  letter  and  say  what  I  think  of  him  as  a 
doctor,  and  have  it  printed.  I'll  say  he  is  decaying, 
over-ripe,  gone  to  seed.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  1  Nothing  un- 
derhand about  that :  he  will  recognize  his  enemy." 

So  in  the  gathering  darkness  he  sat  down  at  his 
desk,  and  began  to  scratch  away  on  the  first  piece  of 
paper  that  lay  before  him.  But  his  fingers  failed 
him,  and  he  sank  back,  shivering  and  dizzy. 

"  I'll  wait  till  to-morrow — to-morrow ;  he  cannot 
escape  me,"  he  muttered.  "  And — yes,  yes,  I  had 
better  go  to  bed.  How  the  room  swims  about !  Ugh  ! 
I  am  afraid  I  have  taken  a  bad  cold,"  and  the  pro- 
fessor shivered  in  the  chilly  darkness,  in  which  only 
the  bed  and  wardrobe  could  be  distinguished,  looking 
grim  and  ghastly  in  their  respective  corners. 

The  professor  dispensed  with  light  at  his  simple 
toilet,  for  he  was,  above  all  things,  a  creature  of 
habit ;  and  in  a  moment  more  his  harassed,  aching 
old  head  was  tossing  about  on  the  pillow,  while  his 
outward  shell  lay  in  artistic    confusion   on    the  floor. 


140         THE   PROFESSOR   OF  DOLLINGEN. 


III. 

THE  sun  shone  in  at  the  professor's  window  the 
next  morning,  and,  in  cheery  fashion,  could  be 
made  to  stop  nowhere  but  at  the  green  curtains  of 
his  bed,  where  it  doubtless  obtained  admission  through 
some  forgotten  hole — not  an  unusual  thing  in  the  be- 
longings of  the  learned  man — for,  in  a  second  more, 
the  professor  put  his  old  head  out  to  look  at  the  un- 
usual guest. 

Simultaneously  with  the  appearance  of  his  head,  the 
knob  of  the  door  was  turned,  dishes  rattled,  then  the 
click-clack  of  a  pair  of  pattens  ;  and  the  next  instant 
there  stood  before  the  professor's  gaze  Hebe,  with  a 
tray  containing  his  breakfast  of  coffee  and  bread ; 
Hebe  with  a  mop  under  her  arm ;  Hebe  looking 
domineeringly  at  her  charge  from  under  an  enormous 
cap  of  a  whitish  material,  which  fitted  with  uncom- 
promising closeness  about  her  head,  and  was  tied 
under  her  huge  chin,  by  two  simple  tape  strings. 

Hebe  was  accustomed  to  her  vocation,  for  she  was 
included  in  the  bill,  and  so  she  clacked  about  in  her 
wooden  shoes  in  search  of  a  chair.  As  they  were  all 
covered  with  books,  she  calmly  emptied  the  Talmud, 
Velez  de  Guevara  and  an  old  book  of  Wynkin  de 
Worde,  with  a  dozen  or  more  biographies  of  the  Devil, 
on  the  floor,  to  the  mute  horror  of  the  professor ;  and 
at  last,  on  the  rescued  chair,  she  placed  the  breakfast 
at  his  side,  and  then,  leaning  on  her  long-handled  mop, 
she  calmly  watched  him. 

"  Ho  !  "  Hebe  exclaimed  at  length. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  the  professor  asked,  accustomed  to 
this  mode  of  address. 

"  Ho,  but  the  city  authority  " — by  which  she  meant 
a  policeman — "  left  this  an  hour  ago  for  you."     With 


THE   PROFESSOR   OF   DOLLINGEN.         I4I 

these  words  the  handmaiden  began  a  methodical  ex- 
amination of  a  dozen  pockets,  and  at  last,  from  a  very 
secret  recess  of  her  petticoat,  produced  an  official- 
looking  document  sealed  with  the  three  great  seals 
of  the  university  of  Dollingen,  the  whole  a  little  the 
worse  for  the  wear  of  Hebe's  pocket. 

"  Dear  me  !  what  can  it  be  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  turn- 
ing it  every  which  way. 

"  Perhaps  if  it  were  opened  " — Hebe  volunteered, 
when  the  professor,  looking  up  suddenly,  felt  that  she 
was  slightly  familiar  and  a  little  near,  and  with  a 
sharp  "  Take  the  dishes  away  now,  Trinka  " — for 
Hebe's  earthly  name  was  Trinka — wounded  that  faith- 
ful chore-woman  to  the  heart. 

The  official-looking  envelope  was  at  last  opened. 
**  Good  God  !  am  I  dreaming  ?  "  shouted  the  professor. 

It  was  dated  the  day  before  from  the  university. 
As  the  professor  read  the  date  he  remained  open- 
mouthed,  and  at  length  could  only  gasp,  "  What  a 
coincidence  1 " 

The  document  was  printed,  and  ran  thus  : 

"The  Faculties  of  all  the  universities  of  Germany 
have  met  for  the  purpose  of  deciding  in  what  manner 
to  prevent  the  present  corrupting  influence  on  our 
literature  and  our  nation  of  the  publication  of  the 
vast  quantity  of  worthless  books  and  other  printed 
matter,  injurious  alike  to  intellect  and  morals. 

"  As  the  literature  of  a  country  is  the  education  of 
its  people,  the  greatest  minds  in  Germany  have,  for 
this  purpose,  given  their  most  faithful  and  valuable 
counsel,  the  result  of  which  has  obtained  the  august 
sanction  of  our  emperor,  who,  for  the  sake  of  his  be- 
loved people,  has  commanded  that  which  we  would 
only  too  gladly  have  tried  as  an  experiment  shall, 
from  this  day,  become  a  law." 


142  THE   PROFESSOR  OF   DOLLINGEN. 

"THE  LAW. 

"  From  this  day  forth,  in  every  city  there  shall  be 
established  the  office  of  censor  of  literature,  to  whom 
all  works  previous  to  publication  must  be  brought 
for  examination,  that  he  may  judge  if  it  will  be  for 
the  advancement  of  literature  that  they  be  printed. 
If  there  is  only  one  good  and  original  idea  in  a  whole 
work,  the  book  shall  be  published.  If,  however,  it  is 
found  that  the  book  contains  but  old  ideas  in  new 
language,  then  it  will  be  best  that  such  a  work  be 
suppressed.  This  law  shall  hold  good  in  the  case  of 
every  manuscript,  of  whatever  magnitude,  which  is  to 
be  printed  and  sold." 

Underneath  was  written  in  the  well-known  hand- 
writing of  the  secretary  of  the  university  of  DoUingen  : 
"  Three  rooms  have  been  set  apart  in  the  town-hall  for 
the  censor  of  literature,  who  enters  upon  his  office  to- 
day, and  may  be  seen  between  the  hours- of  9  a.  m.  and 
2  p.  M.  by  any  applicant  who  feels  convinced  that  his 
work  contains  the  requisite  qualities  for  success.  In 
conclusion,  it  will  be  as  well  to  state  that  those  whose 
works  are  completed  will  be  wise  to  apply  immediately, 
as  the  censor  will  be  overwhelmed  with  duties  as  soon 
as  his  office  is  more  popularly  understood." 

"  Good  God  !  "  the  professer  again  cried,  and  sank 
into  deep  meditation.  "  What  will  the  doctor  say 
when  he  hears  of  this  ?  " 

He  meditated  profoundly,  and  the  upshot  was  that, 
it  being  a  mere  formality  for  such  a  man  as  himself, 
and  as  The  Progress  of  Lucifer  was  completed,  he 
would  comply  with  the  advice  of  the  writer  and  take 
Lucifer  to  the  town-hall. 

At  the  same  time  he  would  satisfy  his  curiosity — • 
which  was  greatly  aroused — by  discovering  who  was 
the  man  who  could  be  impartial,  inhuman  and  wise 


THE   PROFESSOR  OF  DOLLINGEN.         143 

enough  to  criticise  every  variety  of  polite  and  learned 
literature. 

"  One  thing  I  am  sure  of,"  he  muttered  as  he  per- 
formed his  ablutions — "that  Hagen  knew  all  about 
it  yesterday,  and  instead  of  telling  me  outright,  like 
an  honest  man,  he  went  about  hinting  and  sneering. 
But  I'll  be  even  with  him  yet,"  he  exclaimed  angrily ; 
and  in  his  passion  got  soap  into  his  eyes,  and  so 
splashed  and  sputtered  away,  that  the  Holy,  Sagacious 
and  Learned  Devil  was  more  drenched  than  comfort- 
able for  an  individual  presumably  used  to  warm  re- 
gions. 

It  was  just  ten  o'clock  when  the  professor  descended 
the  stairs  with  Lucifer  \xw^&x  his  arm,  and  content  and 
satisfaction  beaming  from  his  face. 

"  Why,  bless  my  soul !  how  do  you  do,  neighbor  ?  " 
he  cried,  for  there,  on  the  sidewalk,  stood  the  con- 
fectioner, brilliant  in  his  Sunday  best.  "  Where  are 
you  going  at  this  time  of  day  ? "  he  continued,  amazed. 

It  was  neither  Sunday  nor  a  holiday,  and  the  baker 
— ^for  of  course  he  was  also  a  baker — should  by  rights 
have  been  standing  behind  his  counter  selling  penny 
tarts. 

"  I  am  bound  to  the  town-hall,"  the  little  man  said, 
with  much  pride. 

"  Are  you,  indeed  ?  "  the  professor  cried,  astonished. 
"  So  am  I ;  then  we  will  go  together." 

Thus  the  gratified  baker  accompanied  the  learned 
man,  lingering  one  step  behind  as  a  sacrifice  to  his 
notions  of  respect.  i 

The  professor  walked  on  engrossed  in  thought, 
while  the  honest  confectioner  racked  his  brains  for  a 
topic  of  conversation  worthy  of  so  great  a  man ;  and 
he  was  still  so  engaged  when  they  crossed  the  market- 
place. 

The  market-place  was  silent  and  deserted  this  morn- 
.ing,  except  for  the  bronze  statue  of  an  old  fighting 


144         THE   PROFESSOR  OF  DOLLINGEN. 

prince,  immortally  portrayed  in  periwig  and  cocked 
hat,  and  mounted  on  a  well-fed  horse  with  a  superb 
mane  and  tail. 

At  the  door  of  the  old,  weather-beaten  town  -  hall, 
with  the  memory  of  something  Spanish  in  its  time- 
stained  angles  and  curves,  there  was  a  small  crowd 
of  people  going  in. 

"  Curious,"  the  professor  murmured.  "  I  never  saw 
so  many  people  here. — I  suppose  I  must  leave  you 
now,"  and  he  turned  to  his  companion. 

"  I  am  going  up  to  the  first  floor,"  the  man  answer- 
ed. 

"  So  am  I,  and,  so  it  seems,  are  all  these  people," 
and  the  professor  watched  them  file  up  the  great  stone 
stairs. 

"Perhaps,"  the  little  baker  ventured  to  say — "per- 
haps we  are  all  bound  on  the  same  errand." 

"  Ha !  ha !  ha  !  "  laughed  the  professor.  He  could 
not  help  it  for  the  life  of  him.  "Ha!  ha!  ha!"  Con- 
necting his  Progress  of  Lucifer  and  that  rabble  !  As 
he  thought  of  it  he  laughed  again. 

"  I  myself  am  going  for  this  purpose,"  the  confec- 
tioner said  humbly ;  and,  with  these  words,  he  drew 
from  his  coat-tail  pocket  an  exact  copy  of  the  solemn 
looking  envelope  which  the  professor  had  received 
that  same  morning. 

"  You  >  you  ?  "  cried  the  professor.  "  Do  you  mean 
to  say  that  you  cultivate  literature  as  well  as  confec- 
tionery ?  "  and  he  stared  at  his  neighbor  with  wide- 
opened  eyes. 

"  A  little,  a  little,"  the  other  answered,  not  without 
pride.  "  If  your  honor  was  at  the  Baroness  Stumpf- 
stein's  party  last  week  you  must  have  noticed  my  work, 
for  I  wrote  all  the  mottoes  for  the  sugar-balls."  So 
speaking,  the  little  man  with  his  right  hand  on  his 
breast  struck  an  attitude  which  all  but  said,  "  I  am  the 
Man !  " 


THE   PROFESSOR   OF  DOLLINGEN.'        145 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  "  the  professor  laughed  and,  in  his 
vast  amusement,  he  had  to  cling  to  the  railing  of  the 
steps  to  keep  from  falling.  "  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Excuse 
my  hilarity.  I  was  not  at  the  baroness's  party  ;  never- 
theless, I  greet  you  as  a  poet.  May  I  ask  if  you  in- 
tend publishing  any  more  verses  ?  " 

"  Yes,  honored  sir  ;  the  Countess  Hasenfels  gives 
a  party  next  week,  when  my  Muse  is  to  have  carte 
blanche" 

"  You  are  a  lucky  poet,"  cried  the  professor,  as  they 
climbed  the  stairs  to  the  rooms  of  the  censor,  "  you 
will  never  starve.  If  one  profession  gives  out,  you 
have  the  other.  Lucky,  lucky  poet !  "  he  cried,  shak- 
ing his  forefinger  at  his  companion,  who  would  as  soon 
have  expected  bitterness  in  one  of  his  own  almond 
tarts,  as  irony  in  the  professor. 

The  professor  peeped  curiously  about,  wondering 
in  which  of  the  labyrinths  of  corridors  he  should  dive, 
when  from  one  of  the  neighboring  rooms  there  ap- 
peared a  solemn  being  in  black,  who,  seeing  the  man- 
uscript under  the  professor's  arm,  asked  his  name, 
which  he  no  sooner  heard  than  he  respectfully  led 
the  way  into  a  small  bare  room,  destitute  of  everything 
but  a  couple  of  pine  chairs. 

"  As  soon  as  His  Excellency,  the  court  poet,  has 
finished  with  the  censor,  you  may  take  your  turn.  In 
that  room  we  let  the  herd  wait,"  pointing  to  a  closed 
door  with  his  thumb.  "  But  who  is  this  ?  "  and  he 
turned  on  his  heel  and  confronted  the  unhappy  con- 
fectioner, who  felt  in  his  inmost  heart  that  he  belong- 
ed to  the  "  herd  "  and  had  no  business  there. 

"  A  friend  of  mine,  pray  let  him  stay,"  the  professor 
answered,  hastily. 

The  respectable  man  stared  at  the  confectioner 
from  head  to  foot  with  much  contempt,  who  crept 
into  a  remote  corner,  and  sat  down,  holding  his  hat 
between  his  knees.     The  professor  stood  looking  out 


146         THE  PROFESSOR  OF  DOLLINGEN. 

of  the  solitar)'  window,  quite  near  the  door  of  the 
room  where  the  court  poet  and  the  terrible  censor 
were  closeted  together,  by  which  door  some  old  lock- 
smith, long  since  dead,  had  not  done  his  duty ;  for  the 
latch  would  not  catch,  leaving  it  open  enough  for  the 
professor  to  hear  distinctly  every  word  that  was  ut- 
tered ;  a  fact  of  which  he  would  have  remained  un- 
conscious, if  suddenly  a  well  known  voice  had  not 
reached  his  ears — a  bitter,  biting  voice  that  had  called 
him,  the  author  of  The  Progress  of  Lucifer,  over-ripe, 
decaying,  the  day  before. 

"  What  can  the  doctor  have  to  do  here  ?  "  he  thought, 
starting  forward. 

The  next  instant  his  doubts  were  set  at  rest  when 
he  heard  that  same  voice  say,  "  I  am  still  a  novice  in 
my  position.  Your  Excellency,  but  so  much  the  more 
will  I  do  my  duty." 

"  Merciful  Heavens  !  "  the  professor  thought — "  he 
the  censor  ?  he,  the  unsuccessful  man  of  letters,  a 
critic  t  But  they  were  wise  who  made  this  bitter  foe 
to  success  the  judge,  for  what  sterner  critic  could  they 
find  ? " 

'  "  Sir,"  said  this  same  voice  with  much  dignity,  "  the 
insults  you  lavish  on  me  but  recoil  upon  yourself.  1 
have  read  your  poems,  and  I  find  in  them  no  line 
worthy  of  you.  Your  Excellency,  you  wrong  your 
genius,  and  some  day  you  will  thank  me,  for,  in  spite 
of  your  great  name,  I  will  not  allow  your  poems  to 
be  published." 

"  Prevent  me,  if  you  dare,"  cried  a  passionate  voice, 
and  the  next  insta'Yit  His  Excellency  dashed  out  of  the 
room.  But  it  is  not  often  that  a  court  poet  hears  the 
truth. 

"  Aha !  you  here,  my  good  friend  ?  "  cried  the  doc- 
tor, and,  rubbing  his  hands  in  high  glee  he  walked  up 
to  the  professor.  "  Let  by-gones  be  by-gones.  Come, 
shall  we  be  on  friendly  terms  again  ?     For  I  must  tell 


THE   PROFESSOR   OF   DOLLINGEN.  147 

you  that  I  feel  contented ;  I  like  this  position  amaz- 
ingly.    It  just  suits  my  taste." 

"  Dr.  Hagen,"  the  professor  began,  *'  I  did  not  come 
to  see  you ;  I  came  to  see  the  censor  of  literature,  in 
whom  I  regret  to  find  you,  though  I  believe  you  to  be 
an  honest  man.  You  do  not  need  or  want  my  friend- 
ship, so  I  only  ask  you  to  judge  of  my  work  as  im- 
partially as  you  would  that  of  a  stranger." 

"  You  are  at  least  just,"  the  doctor  answered,  with 
a  malicious  smile,  *'  and  so  am  I.  You  will  acknowl- 
edge that  I  have  the  right  to  judge  of  your  work,  for 
I  have  been  a  silent  witness  of  its  progress.  Oblige 
me  by  entering  my  office.  Let  me  take  your  manu- 
script. Some  men  have  the  ridiculous  idea  that  an 
original  subject  is  to  be  desired.  Your  subject  is  not 
entirely  new." 

"  Not  new  in  the  past,  perhaps,"  and  the  professor 
grew  excited,  "  but  now  in  our  practical  nineteenth 
century,  who  would  care  to  write  on  so  mystical  a 
subject." 

"  My  dear  professor,  it  is  always  the  dreamers  who 
deny  their  natures ;  and  it  is  just  the  same  with  the 
nineteenth  century.  If  we  could  judge  of  other  ages 
with  the  same  knowledge  we  do  of  this,  I  believe  their 
romance  would  pale  before  ours.  Let  me  give  you  a 
practical  example. — Johann  !  "  The  man  of  service 
appeared,  to  whom  the  doctor  gave  instructions  in 
a  whisper,  and  as  he  turned  his  back  to  the  professor,  a 
grin  of  exquisite  malice  made  his  green  eyes  greener, 
and  distended  his  wide  mouth  from  ear  to  ear. — "  My 
dear  friend,  1  must  give  you  a  lesson,"  he  thought. 

At  that  moment  there  was  heard  a  humble,  falter- 
ing tap  at  the  door. 

It  opened,  and  there  entered  a  procession  of  seven. 
One  of  the  seven  was  fat  and  wore  a  pompous  look  and 
a  gold  watch  chain  ;  he  was  an  exception.  Middle- 
aged  men  they  were  all,  with  anxious,  harrowed  faces, 


148         THE  PROFESSOR  OF   DOLLINGEN. 

and  a  bewildered  look  in  their  spectacled  eyes. 
Each  carried  a  voluminous  manuscript  under  his  arm, 
and  they  all  glared  at  each  other  with  deep  sus- 
picion. 

"  Gentlemen,"  the  doctor  said  with  much  friendli- 
ness, as  if  deprecating  his  new  authority — "  Gentle- 
men, I  had  Johann  call  you,  fearing  that  your  time 
would  be  lost  waiting  in  such  a  crowd.  It  will  be 
best  if  each  of  you  will  in  turn  leave  his  manuscript 
and  address  at  the  desk. — Herr  Simponius,"  said  the 
doctor,  seating  himself  at  his  desk  quite  near  the  pro- 
fessor, and  addressing  the  individual  who  had  tapped 
at  the  door, — "  Herr  Simponius,  pray  advance,"  which 
he  did,  and  apologetically  dictated  to  the  doctor : 
"  Adolph  Simponius,  author  of  The  World  and  the 
Devil"  and  apologetically  laid  his  manuscript  down, 
while  the  doctor,  with  a  look  of  sly  enjoyment,  watched 
the  surprise  on  the  professor's  face. 

The  next  man  had  more  assurance :  "  Dietrich 
Reinhold,  author  of  Demonology  and  Witchcraft" 

"  Many  thanks,  Herr  Reinhold :  I  shall  be  delight- 
ed to  examine  your  fine  library,  and  proud  to  meet 
your  wife." 

Number  three  :  "  Heinrich  Hermann,  author  of 
The  Life  of  Satan." 

A  glance  of  venomous  amusement  at  the  bewil- 
dered surprise  of  the  professor. 

So  through  the  list  till  the  seven  had  disappeared, 
and  seven  manuscripts  alone  remained  as  a  token  of 
their  presence. 

With  his  chin  resting  on  his  hand,  the  doctor,  as  if 
absent-minded,  read  the  remainder  of  the  titles  out 
loud  :  "  The  Devil's  Book,  Lucifer's  Kingdom,  2he 
Club  footed  Devil,  Modern  Demons.  Hum  !  hum !  a 
pretty  collection ! "  he  muttered  to  himself,  all  the 
while  sharply  watching  his  victim. 

"  Good  God  !     What  do  you  mean  by  this  farce  ?  " 


THE  PROFESSOR   OF  DOLLINGEN.         149 

and  a  heavy  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder.     "  Why 
can't  you  be  honest,  outspoken  ?  " 

"  Take  your  hand  from  my  shoulder,  sir,"  the  doc- 
tor cried,  turning  haughtily  on  the  old  man.  "  As  for 
understanding  the  drift  of  such  expressions,  I  am 
afraid  I  am  as  much  at  a  loss  for  a  meaning  as  your 
readers  generally  are." 

"  What  am  I  now  ?  what  am  I  now  ? "  murmured 
the  old  man,  as  he  turned  away  and  buried  his  face  in 
his  hands. 

"  You  are  one  of  eight,"  the  doctor  cried  with  a 
mocking  smile.  "  Eight  there  are  in  the  good  town 
of  Dollingen  alone  who  write  about  the  Devil.  You 
know  they  say — ha !  ha ! — that  misery  loves  company. 
Yesterday  I  dared  only  hint ;  to-day  I  may — nay,  it 
is  my  duty  to  speak  openly.  Would  you  put  your 
name  to  that  book .? "  he  cried,  placing  his  hand  on 
the  professor's  manuscript.  "Then  you  would  be 
giving  your  name  to  a  lie — a  lie,  I  say.  You  did  not 
write  it :  ages  of  long-forgotten  men,  have  written  it. 
It  is  their  wisdom,  their  knowledge  and — pray  be 
comforted — their  folly.  You  have  read  much  in  your 
life  "— 

"  Stop,  Hagen  !  " 

"  No,  I  will  not.  You  have  read  much,  but  while 
you  remember  the  contents  of  books,  you  forget  their 
authors,  and  their  ideas,  and  yours  become  strangely 
intermingled  until  you  claim  the  paternity  of  all. 
Why,  you  have  neither  originality  nor  ideas — you,  the 
learned  man  !  Mark  me ! "  he  cried  with  a  trium- 
phant smile,  pointing  toward  the  half-opened  door, 
"  that  little  confectioner  out  there  has  more  originality 
than  you,  and  does  more  good  to  the  world,  for  he  at 
least  amuses  with  his  imbecile  rhymes,  while  you,  you 
great  man,  can  neither  teach  nor  amuse." 

"  Spare  me  1  spare  me  !  "  cried  the  old  man,  sink- 
ing back  into  his  chair,  with  a  smothered  groan. 


ISO         THE   PROFESSOR   OF   DOLLINGEN. 

"Why  should  I  spare  you?  The  world  did  not 
spare  me,  but  I  had  to  learn  the  bitter  lesson  from 
every  penny  paper." 

"You  are  a  stern  teacher,"  the  old  man  cried, 
rising,  and,  as  the  doctor  watched  him  with  curious 
eyes,  he  seemed  ten  years  older  than  the  hale,  hearty 
man  who  had  entered  the  room  only  half  an  hour  be- 
fore— "  you  are  a  stern  teacher, — you  have  unmanned 
me  and  seen  the  agony  of  my  heart.  That  I  regret. 
We  often  have  to  stand  as  we  are  before  our  con- 
sciences, and  you  are  my  conscience,  which  has  been 
sleeping  till  now.  Could  you  have  been  gentler  in 
your  treatment  of  me,  I — I  forgive  you.  Perhaps 
your  way  was  the  kindest.  My  manuscript  ?  Yes, 
yes,  I  will  take  it.  O  God  !  the  ruined  hopes  !  the 
lost  years  !  "  he  cried,  burying  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Recovering  himself,  and  without  another  look  at 
his  enemy,  he  opened  the  door.  The  confectioner 
sat  dozing  in  his  corner. 

The  professor  shook  him.  "  Come  !  come  home 
with  me  !  "  he  cried  in  a  dazed  way. 

"  Holy  Virgin !  what's  the  matter,  sir  ?  "  the  little 
man  exclaimed,  so  haggard  and  worn  did  the  pro- 
fessor look. 

"  A  blow,  my  friend — a  blow." 

"  What  ?  "  cried  the  confectioner,  understanding 
it  literally,  and  evidently  making  for  the  doctor. 

"  Not  so,  not  so,"  and  the  professor  detained  him 
gently.  "  Nothing  you  can  heal,  my  friend — nothing 
you  can  heal.     Only  come  now ;  let  us  go  home." 

So  they  went.  Johann  shut  them  out  with  little 
ceremony,  for  they  were  of  no  account  in  the  literary 
world  or  any  other  world.  They  passed  a  new  crowd 
going  in  with  hopes  full  blown,  but  nobody  noticed 
them,  the  bowed  old  man  leaning  on  the  little  round 
poet. 

So  they  reached  the  narrow  street.     Again  the  well- 


THE   PROFESSOR  OF  DOLLINGEN.         15  ^ 

known  room  closed  about  him,  and  at  last  even  the 
green  curtains  of  the  bed  ;  and  now.  for  the  first  time, 
he  was  alone — alone  with  his  misery.  In  his  despair 
and  sorrow  he  buried  his  gray  head  in  the  pillow  and 
burst  into  a  wild,  dreadful  flood  of  tears. 

"  He  has  come  back  to  consciousness,"  said  the 
doctor,  as  he  bent  anxiously  over  the  professor. 

From  the  pillow  two  hollow  eyes  glared  at  him,  and 
a  feeble  hand  tried  to  push  him  away. 

"  You  here  ?  "  the  professor  whispered. 

"  Why,  of  course — been  here  for  a  couple  of  weeks. 
In  fact,  had  a  bed  put  up  here.  You've  been  pretty 
sick,  and  I  had  a  hard  time  pulling  you  through." 

"  You  !  After  what  you  told  me  at  the  town-hall 
— I  can  never  forget  it — and  what  you  said  about  The 
Progress  of  Lucifer  !  " 

"  Hush  !  "  the  doctor  commanded,  gently.  "  You 
are  dreaming.  For  two  weeks  you  have  been  dream- 
ing :  we  call  it  brain  fever." 

"  But  —  but  what  you  said  at  the  inn  ?  "  the  pro- 
fessor murmured,  bewildered. 

"  I  have  said  many  things  that  I  have  regretted 
sorely  :  that  was  one.  I  came  here  the  next  morning 
to  bid  you  not  mind  an  old  misanthrope  like  myself, 
and  I  found  you  already  delirious.  Trinka  said  that 
you  talked  all  sorts  of  nonsense  to  her  when  she 
brought  you  your  breakfast.     So  I  found  you." 

"  Oh,  forgive  me  !  forgive  me  !  "  and  the  professor 
grasped  with  two  thin  hands  the  doctor's  right  hand. 

"  Forgive  you  ?    I  ?    Why,  you  should  forgive  me." 

"  No,  no  !  I  have  been  so  unjust  to  you  !  I 
thought  of  you  with  hatred.  I  dreamed  you  said  The 
Progress  of  Luafer  was  not  original — that  it  did  not 
contain  one  good  idea,"  and  the  poor  professor  looked 
wistfully  at  the  doctor's  embarrassed  face.     "  Yes, 


152         THE   PROFESSOR   OF   DOLLINGEN. 

yes,  my  dream  has  come  true ;  I  have  wasted  my 
life,"  he  groaned,  turning  his  head  away. 

"My  dear  professor,"  and  the  doctor,  took  the  old 
man's  unresisting  hand  in  his  own,  "  The  Progress 
of  Lucifer  must  be  a  forbidden  subject  to  you.  It  has 
been  your  death,  nearly  \  that  is  as  much  as  you  can 
give  to  one  work.  If  you  still  wish  to  live,  I  forbid 
you  thinking  of  it  for  one  year  at  least.  I  have  had 
all  the  damned  histories  of  the  Devil  taken  away ;  if 
after  a  year  you  wish  them  back,  you  shall  have  them." 

**  I  obey,"  the  professor  said  solemnly,  "  for  I  have 
had  a  warning." 

There  was  an  incredulous  smile  about  the  doctor's 
mouth,  and  a  question  in  the  end  of  his  turned-up 
nose. 

"  Do  not  smile,"  the  professor  said  sadly.  "  I  have 
had  a  warning  which  I  shall  obey.  You  will  laugh 
if  you  know  that  I  have  had  a  lesson  in  a  dream,  and 
that  instead  of  waiting  for  the  judgment  of  the  world, 
I  accept  yours  and  abide  by  it.  You  came  here 
grieved  for  your  hasty  words,  but  with  unchanged 
opinions,  I  know." 

"  You  have  done  wisely  and  bravely,"  thought  the 
doctor,  and  pressed  the  professor's  hand,  and  for  the 
first  time  he  loved  him.  Was  he  not  on  his  own 
level  now,  defeated  and  unhappy?  From  this  mo- 
ment the  contradictory  doctor  was  ready  to  sacrifice 
everything  to  restore  these  shattered  hopes, 

"  Take  all  these  things  away,"  the  professor  cried — 
"books,  papers.  Heaven  knows,  I  wish  you  could 
take  my  memory  also  !  " 

"  Nonsense  I  nonsense  I  "  the  doctor  interrupted 
cheerily.  "  In  a  few  days  you  will  be  well  again,  and 
you  and  I  will  quarrel  as  we  used.  The  old  times 
will  come  back  with  the  old  professor." 

"  Never,  Hagen !  The  old  times  have  carried 
away  the  old  professor." 


THE   PROFESSOR  OF  DOLLINGEN.         153 

'•  There's  Trinka  come  to  see  how  you  are.  Trinka, 
bring  me  a  chair  and  a  pipe,"  the  doctor  command- 
ed:  "I  want  to  sit  down  by  your  master  and  show 
him  that  as  long  as  a  friend  remains  and  there  is  a 
curl  of  smoke  in  a  pipe,  the  old  times  must  surely 
come  back." 


A  TRIFLE  OF  INFORMATION. 
I. 

FROM  Miss  Dorothy  Outerbridge  to  her  brother, 
Captain  Richard  Outerbridge. 

{  Villa  Bellevue,  St.  Sever  in  on  the  Rhine, 
\  June  2nd,  1890. 

Dearest  Dick  :  Why  didn't  you  take  me  with  you ! 
To  say  that  no  nice  young  man  wants  his  sister  tag- 
ging after  him  !  Did  I  not  offer  to  pretend  not  to  be 
your  sister,  and  you  said  that  would  not  do  at  all  ? 
Aunt  Mumler  botanizes  and  comes  home  all  mosquito 
bites.  Such  mosquitoes  as  they  have  here !  I  told 
Aunt  we'd  have  to  take  to  smoking,  and  she  was  aw- 
fully shocked. 

It  is  so  tiresome  here,  Dick,  and  I  am  just  dying  for 
a  romance.  I  thought  romances  were  commoner  here 
than  in  New  York,  but  Priscilla  says  that  men  who 
know  anything,  don't  fall  in  love  with  things  like  me, 
and  she  may  be  right. 

I  have  no  chance  when  Priscilla's  about !  Sunday 
we  went  to  church  and  everybody  stared  at  her,  and 
she  captured  a  girl.  It  wasn't  much,  but  it  was  better 
than  nothing.  The  girl  comes  every  afternoon  to 
adore  her  and  I  just  run,  I  can't  stand  it. 

I  have  thought  it  over  and  I  mean  to  form  myself 
on  Priscilla's  plan, — my  mind  and  my  style,  I  mean, 
for  I  can't  get  my  nose  down  straight,  and  that  is  a 
trial  ! 

I've  found  just  the  loveliest  place  where  I  can  be 
alone, — only  don't  tell !  It  is  a  garden.  I  practise 
(154) 


A  TRIFLE  OF  INFORMATION.  155 

here  raising  my  head  and  showing  off  my  eyelashes 
just  as  Prissy  does,  while  I  hold  my  nose.  A  girl  I 
knew  did  a  great  deal  that  way  towards  making  hers 
Grecian,  and  she  said  it  was  a  great  deal  worse  than 
mine. 

Perhaps  when  I  am  quite  perfect  the  romance  will 
come. 

I  heard  the  other  day  that  there  is  an  awfully  hand- 
some man  here  among  the  summer  boarders,  who 
forges  bonds  and  things, — millions  worth !  I'd  like 
to  meet  him  !  Perhaps  after  a  while  he  would  fall  in 
love  with  me,  and  repent.  Wouldn't  that  be  a  ro- 
mance !  But  he'd  be  sure  to  fall  in  love  with  Priscilla 
instead, — I  have  no  chance. 

Do  send  me  a  box  of  candy  from  Baden-Baden ;  I 
think  it  would  make  life  more  endurable  till  you  come 
back. 

There's  that  dreadful  Cordula  (Priscilla's  girl)  and 
now  I  must  run,  for  they're  beginning ! 

Your  loving  sister, 

Dolly. 

The  hills  about  St.  Severin  on  the  Rhine  were  capped 
by  gloomy  mediaeval  castles,  from  which  the  noble 
proprietors  gazed  with  scorn  upon  unassorted  summer 
boarders,  giddily  enjoying  themselves  by  means  of 
donkeys,  dancing  and  band  concerts  in  the  casino. 

Beyond  the  village  there  were  certain  villas  to  be 
rented  for  the  season,  and  one,  the  loneliest  and  most 
expensive,  seemed  to  rent  along  with  its  other  advan- 
tages, a  vague  claim  to  at  least  moderate  civility  from 
the  (truly)  upper  circles,  for  the  upper  circles,  after 
penetrating  into  a  boarder's  pedigree,  were  not  insen- 
sible to  the  state  of  his  cash  account. 

As  this  story  opens,  this  desirable  villa  had  been 
rented  by  an  American  family,  upon  whom  St.  Severin 
turned  a  perplexed  scrutiny. 


15^  A  TRIFLE  OF  INFORMATION. 

There  was  a  lively  young  man  who  never  ceased 
asking  questions,  and  there  was  an  old  lady  in  spec- 
tacles who  would  have  asked  questions  had  she  not 
been  mercifully  ignorant  of  the  German  language. 

The  other  two  members  refreshed  the  sight  of  St. 
Severin  the  next  Sunday  at  the  Protestant  chapel, 
where  the  select  of  St.  Severin  worshiped,  the  unse- 
lect  being  Roman  Catholics,  while  the  summer  board- 
ers, for  unexplained  reasons,  were  heathens. 

A  couple  of  old  generals  and  a  gouty  baron  or  two, 
stared  heavily  as  a  very  beautiful  woman  passed  up 
the  aisle,  followed  by  a  young  person  in  pink. 

It  was  at  once  known  that  this  was  the  lady  of  the 
villa,  Mrs.  Oldecott  from  New  York,  and  the  young 
person  in  pink  was  her  sister.  Miss  Outerbridge.  The 
gentleman  was  their  brother.  Captain  Outerbridge,  U. 
S.  A.  on  leave,  and  the  old  lady  of  the  inquiring  mind 
was  their  aunt,  Mrs.  Mumler. 

It  further  transpired  that  Capt.  Outerbridge,  hav- 
ing exhausted  St.  Severin,  had  embraced  his  family 
and  retired  to  the  joys  of  Baden-Baden. 


II. 

FROM  Mrs.  Oldecott  to  her  brother,  Captain  Outer- 
bridge. 

(  Villa  Bellevue. 
\       June  2nd. 

My  Dear  Dick  :  You  would  have  liked  St.  Severin 
better  had  you  stayed.  Aunt  Mumler  is  so  contented, 
she  botanizes  and  keeps  a  diary  for  the  people  in 
Portland.  I  wish  Dolly  liked  it  better ;  I  think  she 
misses  you,  and  she  dusts  your  room  every  day  in 
melancholy  remembrance.  I  found  her  crying  over 
your  cigarettes  the  other  day.  She  has  a  way  of  dis- 
appearing after  breakfast  and  if  this  were  not  so  quiet 


A   TRIFLE   OF  INFORMATION.  157 

and  safe  a  place,  I  should  certainly  interfere, — she  is 
too  independent. 

I  have  met  some  very  pleasant  people,  quite  the 
nicest  here,  a  Baron  and  Baroness  Von  Stendal  and 
their  daughter,  who  is  devoted  to  me.  There  is  a 
brother  attached  to  the  German  embassy  in  London. 
Cordula  talks  about  him  a  good  deal  and  that  is  rather 
tiresome. 

Don't  stay  away  too  long,  Dick  dear,  for  we  do 

miss  you  badly.  inrvu         u  i 

^  •'  With  much  love, 

Priscilla. 

The  Stendals  firmly  believed  that  they  were  as  old 
as  the  hills  and,  indeed,  the  first  Baron  Stendal  was 
of  the  7th  century,  when  he  became  at  once  a  good 
Christian  and  the  most  scoundrelly  robber  on  the 
Rhine.  The  present  Baroness  wore  a  breakfast  shawl 
and  had  her  hair  cut  short,  and  she  nagged  the  Baron, 
her  husband,  in  the  intervals  of  knitting  endless 
stockings. 

They  were,  however,  united  in  wholesome  awe  of 
their  son.  Baron  Kurt  von  Stendal,  and  his  occasional 
visits  were  the  joy  and  terror  of  their  lives.  The 
young  man  did  not  realize  what  an  event  his  coming 
was,  nor  how  he  upset  that  respectable  establishment. 
His  own  infallibility  bored  him  fearfully,  and  he  had 
been  known  to  disappear  for  a  couple  of  days  to 
breathe  air  unincensed,  and  even  his  good  mother  did 
not  dare  to  remark  on  these  abrupt  departures. 

The  continental  train  was  just  leaving  the  London 
station,  when  Baron  Stendal  opened  his  sister's  last 
letter  and  smiled  absently  at  its  enthusiasm.  "  I  have 
a  new  friend  who  is  so  lovely,  and  how  I  wish  you 
would  fall  in  love  with  her,  though — there ! — she  is  a 
widow,  and  I  used  to  think  widows  should  not  marry 
again.  But  her  husband  was  old  and  she  only  married 
him  because  he  was  so  distinguished,  her  Aunt  told 


158  A  TRIFLE   OF  INFORMATION. 

me.     Her  Aunt  is  a  nice  person  who  asks  a  great 
many  questions. 

"  Truly,  Kurt  dear,  this  is  the  first  woman  I  ever 
wanted  you  to  marry.  She  is  nearly  worthy  of  you, 
and  I  adore  her.  There  is  a  sister,  but  I  do  not  think 
much  of  her." 

III. 

THE  pride  of  St.  Severin  was  its  "Jaeger-hof,"  an 
old  rococo  hunting-lodge,  all  stucco-work  and 
statues.  Its  owner,  a  prince  of  Prussia,  had  died, 
and  the  Jaeger-hof,  with  its  concert-hall  and  ball-room 
decorated  with  fat,  improper  cupids  and  faded  rose 
garlands,  was  deserted. 

The  gardens  were  overgrown  with  weeds,  and  time, 
aided  by  a  tangle  of  vines,  had  arrayed  the  broken- 
nosed  statues  in  a  manner  more  befitting  19th  cent- 
ury propriety. 

In  the  midst  of  what  was  once  a  lawn,  but  which 
was  now  a  wilderness  of  grass  dotted  by  vagrant 
poppies,  stood  a  huge  gnarled  apple  tree,  about  which 
some  considerate  soul  had  built  a  wooden  bench. 
Not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard  but  the  drone  of  the 
locusts  and  the  hum  of  the  bumble-bees.  Even  the 
girl  who  sat  in  the  shade  of  the  apple  tree  reading, 
did  not  stir.  It  was  so  peaceful  and  yet  the  enemy 
was  preparing  for  assault. 

"  Buzz-  -uzz-  -zz-  -z-pick  !  " 

"  O  dear  me,  those  horrid  mosquitoes  !  "  and  Dolly 
lashed  herself  with  a  bunch  of  poppies,  then  leaned 
forward,  her  round  chin  in  her  hand,  and  dreamed 
a  little.  "  A  hundred  years  is  a  long  time  to  wait  for 
a  prince, — I  do  think  the  poor  princess  must  have 
felt  a  little  old  in  her  heart  when — O  dear  me,  do  go 
away ! "   here  she  sat  bolt  upright  and  flicked  the 


A  TRIFLE  OF  INFORMATION.  159 

poppies  about  her  head,  for  the  mosquitoes  were 
swarming  merrily. 

Constant  and  solitary  possession  had  given  Dolly 
quite  a  sense  of  owning  this  garden  of  the  late  prince 
of  Prussia,  and  she  never  dreamed  that  any  other 
person  would  intrude  ;  it  was  therefore  with  a  sense 
of  security  that  Miss  Outerbridge  practiced  modifying 
herself  on  the  plan  of  the  stately  Priscilla,  raising  her 
head  and  lowering  her  eyelashes,  in  the  meantime 
holding  her  nose  with  commendable  gravity. 

Just  then  a  stranger  sauntered  through  the  oppo- 
site entrance ;  he  carried  a  book  and  look  bored.  The 
heavy  grass  deadened  his  tread,  and  sitting  down  on 
the  other  side  of  the  apple  tree,  he  proceeded  to  en- 
tertain himself  with  a  joyous  report  (statistical)  of  the 
German  consular  service. 

He  did  pause  to  say,  "  The  child  is  a  perfect  nui- 
sance with  her  widow  !  What  is  her  name  ?  Never 
mind.  Go  to  see  her?  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  do,"  and 
he  dived  into  his  report. 

There  being  a  serpent  in  this  garden  of  Eden,  with 
historic  accuracy  he  addressed  himself  to  Eve. 

"  Buzz- -uzz- -zz-z-pick  !  " 

"  It's  just  too  dreadful !  "  and  Eve  lashed  herself 
with  the  poppies. 

No  sooner  said,  than  she  heard  a  masculine  excla- 
mation, and  before  she  could  struggle  into  an  engaging 
attitude,  there  he  stood, — her  romance.  He  had  ap- 
peared from  the  other  side  of  the  tree. 

"  Pardon  me,  but  can  I  be  of  service  ?  "  he  asked 
in  excellent  English,  and  it  sounded  so  natural  to 
Dolly,  that  she  quite  forgot  to  wonder,  except  as  to 
what  Priscilla  would  do  in  this  delightful  situation. 
In  the  meantime  she  sat  up  very  straight  and  made  a 
frantic  effort  to  hide  her  feet ;  then  she  wondered  how 
long  he  had  observed  her,  and  at  the  thought,  she 
blushed  crimson. 


l6o  A   TRIFLE   OF  INFORMATION. 

Of  course  Priscilla  would  be  gracious,  but  with  a 
film  of  frost,  and  so  Dolly  cheeked  a  too  friendly  smile. 

"  Thank  you,  it  is  only  the  mosquitoes,  they  are  so 
troublesome,"  she  murmured. 

"  Please  don't  let  them  drive  you  away,"  this  sym- 
pathetic stranger  urged. 

Here  Dolly  was  false  to  her  model.  **  I  do  have 
such  times  with  them  since  Dick  went  away, — he  used 
to  smoke.  Were  you  sitting  at  the  other  side  of  the 
tree  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  was  reading.     I  am  afraid  I  startled  you." 

"  Never  mind.  Do  you  know  I  don't  really  want 
to  go  home  quite  yet !  Perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind 
smoking  a  cigar  ?  I  should  be  so  awfully  obliged.  I 
know  that  will  keep  them  away," 

"  With  pleasure,  if  I  have  one  with  me.  I  am  not 
much  of  a  smoker." 

However  he  found  one,  lighted  it  and  looked  be- 
seechingly at  the  curve  of  the  bench  by  her  side. 

But  Dolly  was  alarmed, — what  would  Priscilla  say 
if  she  knew! 

"  Please  don't  let  me  detain  you  any  longer." 

The  accommodating  stranger  hastened  to  say  that 
he  had  nothing  else  to  do  all  day. 

"  I  do  like  the  smoke  best  at  a  little  distance," 
Dolly  urged. 

The  effect  of  this  speech  was  instantaneous,  the 
stranger  retired  to  his  side  of  the  tree. 

"I  don't  think  that  sounded  quite  polite,"  Dolly 
meditated,  and  she  considered  whether  Priscilla  in 
her  place  would  explain  that  she  didn't  mean  to  be 
rude. 

The  sufferer  on  the  other  side  of  the  tree  pondered, 
smoking  vigorously. 

This  young  person  was  very  impolite,  but  why  should 
she  let  him  take  a  liberty  ?  Here  he  was  seized  with 
a  longing  for  another  sight  of  her  face,  and  succumb- 


A  TRIFLE  OF  INFORMATION.  l6l 

ing  to  temptation  he  looked  cautiously  around  the 
corner  and  met  the  gaze  of  two  inquiring  eyes. 

"  I — only  wanted  to  ask  if  the  mosquitoes  are  still 
troubling  you  ?  "  he  faltered. 

"  They  have  all  gone,  thank  you  so  much.  And 
if — if  you  please,  I  wanted  to  say  that  I  didn't  mean 
to  be  rude — about  the  smoke,  you  know.  Dick  cor- 
rects me  a  great  deal,  but  he's  away  now.  It  was 
awfully  good  of  you  to  oblige  me,  but  you  needn't 
smoke  any  longer  for  that,  as  I'm  going.  Good-by," 
and  she  disappeared,  and  he  stood  there  gazing  after 
her,  trying  long  after  she  was  out  of  sight,  to  think  of 
something  brilliant  and  appropriate  to  say. 

Mrs.  Oldecott  lay  back  in  a  low  willow  chair.  She 
was  a  picture  and  she  knew  it.  Beside  her  on  a  table 
were  Cordula's  roses.  They  had  been  sent  the  even- 
ing before  with  a  message  that  she  had  been  detained, 
as  her  brother  had  arrived. 

"  Now  for  a  deluge  of  Stendals." 

But  Priscilla  was  mistaken,  no  Stendals  came  and 
even  Cordula  stayed  away.  Priscilla  resented  this 
defection  of  her  slave  and  so  she  was  cross  to  Aunt 
Mumler.  When  things  went  wrong,  Dolly's  short- 
comings £ame  triumphantly  to  the  fore, 

"  What  has  become  of  Dolly  ?  You  don't  look  out 
for  her  a  bit.  Aunt  1 " 

"  Dolly  is  all  right,  Priscilla,  this  place  is  safe,  safer 
than — Portland."  Aunt  Mumler  was  just  writing  in 
her  diary.  "  I  have  seen  a  young  man  in  Portland, 
but  I  haven't  here." 

"  I  don't  mean  that,  Dolly  is  such  a  child ;  but  one 
ought  to  think  of  appearances." 

Here  the  culprit  sauntered  in.  "  Where  have  you 
been,  Dolly?" 

Dolly  turned  to  the  window  and  became  engrossed 
in  the  landscape. 

"  Been  reading." 
II 


1 62  A   TRIFLE  OF  INFORMATION. 

"  Dolly,  you  are  frightfully  rude." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  am,  Prissy." 

"  It  is  something  that  you  realize  it.  I  wish  you 
had  one  of  your  dolls  here,  you  need  amusement, 
child." 

"  Why  Priscilla,  I  play  with  dolls !  Why,  you  were 
married  at  my  age  >  " 

"  That  is  the  only  thing  you  don't  need  to  imitate." 

"  I  shall  do  just  as  I  please — " 

"  I  dare  say  you  will,  only  don't  surprise  us  too 
much." 

Dolly  gazed  at  her  sister  with  a  forgiving  smile. 
To  mention  dolls  to  her, — Dorothy  Outerbridge, — 
who  had  been  spending  the  morning  in  the  society  of 
an  interesting  stranger  with  a  cigar.  A  stranger  upon 
whom  even  Mrs.  Oldecott  herself  would  gaze  with 
charity,  for  Priscilla  had  in  the  strictest  sense,  charity 
towards  all  men. 

Miss  Outerbridge  retired  to  a  nook  where,  in  her 
hitherto  unromantic  career,  she  had  dreamed  about 
nothing  in  particular. 

She  curled  herself  in  the  broad  window-seat  and 
turned  her  thoughts  to  the  accommodating  stranger. 

*'  I  mustn't  go  over  there  again,  though  it  was  so 
nice  and  quiet;  or  I  might  go  in  the  afternoon,  for  I've 
just  as  much  right  there  as  he.  I  would  be  ashamed 
to  meet  him  there  again — he  might  think  I — no,  I 
won't  go !  How  well  he  speaks  English.  I  wonder 
what  he  thinks  of  me  ?  I  wish  I  had  worn  my  pink 
dress  1  But  that  is  too  late  now. — What  would  Prissy 
do?  I  simply  can't  go  over  there  again.  Oh,  dear! 
and  it  was  the  only  place  where  they  would  leave  me 
alone !  " 

The  next  morning  at  breakfast  Dolly's  entrance 
excited  some  comment. 

"  Why,  Dolly,  you  have  on  your  pink  dress." 

"  The  blue  one  is  all  shrunk  in  the  washing,  Pris- 


A  TRIFLE  OF  INFORMATION.  163 

cilia,  and  it  doesn't  near  reach  my  ankles.  You  don't 
pay  any  attention  to  my  clothes,  you  are  so  taken  up 
with  your  own." 

"  Why,  Dolly,  what  has  happened  ?  Didn't  I  beg 
you  yesterday  morning  not  to  go  tearing  about  in  that 
dreadful  buff  gingham,  and  you  said  I  was  always 
bothering.  The  other  day  you  said  you  wished  you 
could  live  in  a  suit  of  armor  and  be  scoured  off  once 
a  week." 

Dolly,  confronted  with  her  own  inconsistencies,  re- 
marked with  dignity,  "  It's  a  long  time  since  yester- 
day morning,  Priscilla,  and  I've  changed  my  mind. 
It  doesn't  take  twenty-four  hours  to  do  that." 

After  breakfast  Dolly  lingered  irresolutely.  She 
flattened  her  nose  against  the  window  panes  and  flung 
herself  in  turn  on  all  the  chairs. 

At  last,  with  a  look  of  heroic  purpose,  she  fetched 
her  hat  and  a  book, 

*'  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  It  isn't  his  garden !  Besides, 
he  probably  won't  come." 

Baron  Kurt  had  finished  a  late  and  lonely  breakfast 
in  the  ancestral  dining-room.  He  strolled  to  the 
Gothic  window  and  stared  at  the  distant  village. 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  will  go  down  to  the  Jaeger-hof, — 
delightful  place  for  reading. — Intrusion  ?  Why,  it's 
not  her  garden.  Besides,  she  may  not  be  there.  I 
must  not  forget  the  cigars." 

Just  then  Cordula  came  into  the  room. 

"  Will  you  come  this  morning  and  make  that  call, 
Kurt  dear?" 

"  Do  leave  me  alone,  you  absurd  child,"  and  he 
pulled  her  ear  good-naturedly,  "  I  am  busy.  Besides, 
don't  try  your  hand  at  match-making.  If  you  knew 
more  of  human  nature,  you  would  understand  that  a 
brother  and  sister  never  fall  in  love  with  the  same 
woman." 


164  A   TRIFLE   OF  INFORMATION. 

When  Baron  Kurt  reached  the  apple  tree  he  found 
there  a  young  person  in  pink  reading  with  such  in- 
tentness  that,  though  she  blushed  furiously,  she  did 
not  see  him  until  he  stood  before  her. 

"  O,  good-morning, — there  you  are  again,"  Dolly 
said  with  an  engaging  smile,  "I've  been  wondering 
if  you'd — I  mean,  I  was  wondering  if  there  would  be 
any  mosquitoes  here  to-day." 

"  They  shall  not  disturb  you,  I  have  brought  plenty 
of  cigars." 

"  How  nice  of  you.  It  is  just  as  if  Dick  were  here. 
Dick  is  my  brother.  It  doesn't  seem  right  to  let  you 
smoke  all  your  cigars  to  keep  off  the  mosquitoes,  does 
it  ?  But  I  mustn't  interfere  with  your  reading, — how 
wise  your  book  looks." 

Baron  Stendal  blushed.  In  fleeing  from  Cordula 
he  had  grasped  the  first  book  at  hand,  and  it  hap- 
pened to  be  a  dictionary. 

"  May  I  smoke  ?  " 

"  Isn't  that  what  you  are  here  for  ?  "  The  stranger 
retired  to  his  side  of  the  tree,  injured,  and  Dolly 
meditated  on  the  curious  way  she  had  of  saying  rude 
things  with  the  best  intentions. 

On  his  side  of  the  tree,  the  injured  one  smoked  and 
nursed  his  resentment. 

"  So  she  thinks  I  am  here  only  to  smoke  for  her 
benefit !  She  probably  imagines  I  came  here  for  a 
sight  of  her  blue  eyes  and — well,  to-morrow  I  rather 
think  she  will  be  surprised, — I  won't  come  !  " 

"  If  you  please,"  a  "contrite  voice  interrupted,  "  I'm 
afraid  you  must  think  I  am  very  uncivil, — you'll  ex- 
cuse me,  won't  you  ?  I  never  thought  how  it  would 
sound.  I  do  mean  to  say  the  nicest  things  and  then 
they  sound  horrid,  and  Priscilla  says  horrid  things  and 
they  sound  nice,  until  you  stop  to  think." 

The  injured  one  was  at  once  reconciled.  He  ap- 
proached her  curve  of  the  bench  and  took  up  her  book. 


A   TRIFLE   OF  INFORMATION.  1 6$ 

"Please  don't  look  at  it,  please  don't!  You'll 
think  I  am  so  very  young,  and  after  all  I  am  seven- 
teen, nearly  seventeen  and  a  half." 

It  was  a  book  of  fairy-stories  and  it  opened  to  the 
tale  of  the  sleeping  princess,  and  Dolly  blushed  as  she 
thought  how  he  must  guess  at  once  what  she  and  the 
princess  were  waiting  for.  "  I  dare  say  you  have  de- 
cided that  she  lives  in  this  old  palace." 

"  Why,  yes.  How  did  you  guess  ?  She  is  sleeping 
on  the  loveliest  white  silk  couch  and  she  has  long 
golden  hair  and  a  trailing  veil,  as  fine  as  a  cobweb, — 
and  because  she  is  a  princess  she  wears  a  tiny  crown 
all  of  diamonds.  Some  day  the  prince  will  come — 
and — and  how  I  should  like  to  be  there. — What  non- 
sense !  You  musn't  think  that  I  never  read  anything 
else,  I've  fallen  asleep  over  nearly  all  of  Aunt's  books, 
and  they  are  very  improving. 


V. 

''  T  HAVE  never  seen  Kurt  so  contented  before,"  his 

-L  mother  declared,  highly  gratified.  "  He  has  not 
even  suggested  going  away." 

"  I  don't  see  what  a  man  wants  more  than  to  be 
left  alone,"  the  old  Baron  growled. 

"  But  he  shouldn't  hurry  off  to  study,  right  after 
breakfast,"  the  Baroness  continued,  shaking  her  head ; 
*'  strong  as  he  is,  he  will  wear  himself  out." 

"  My  private  impression  is  he  has  his  French  novels 
bound  in  law-calf." 

Here  Cordula  appeared,  a  bunch  of  fragrant  roses 
in  her  hand.  She  put  on  her  eyeglasses  and  looked 
hurt. 

"  I  only  want  to  leave  the  roses  at  the  villa,  but  I 
shall  not  call  on  Mrs.  Oldecott  until  Kurt  goes  with 


1 66  A  TRIFLE   OF  INFORMATION. 

me.     It  is  very  uncivil  of  him  after  all  I  have  said  to 
her." 

But  Kurt  found  a  champion  in  his  mother. 

"  Don't  be  so  foolish,  child,  about  this  young  per- 
son. Kurt  has  more  important  matters  to  attend  to 
than  to  call  on  all  the  strangers  who  stray  into  St. 
Severin  !  Besides,  she  is  an  American  and  with  Kurt's 
title  and  prospects — my  dear,  he  must  be  protected." 

Time  was  passing  and  the  little  apples  on  the  old 
apple  tree  were  swelling  visibly. 

"Ought  I  to  tell  Priscilla.?"  Dolly  wondered. 

After  all,  when  one  is  seventeen  one  is  at  liberty 
to  read  under  any  apple  tree,  and  she  could  not  for- 
bid the  Nameless  one, — so  Dolly  called  him  to  herself, 
— occupying  the  other  side  ;  besides,  his  conversation 
was  improving  and  respectful,  and  his  cigars  were 
good.  She  only  feared  that  he  was  smoking  all  his 
best  ones  in  that  enthusiastic  battle  with  the  mosqui- 
toes. 

The  result  of  this  meditation  was  that  Dolly  retired 
to  Dick's  room  and  examined  his  belongings. 

The  next  morning  the  Nameless  one  was  already 
there  and  his  face  brightened  amazingly  at  sight  of 
her. 

She  smiled  and  yet  she  looked  rather  embarrassed. 

"  Please  take  this,"  she  said,  and  thrust  a  little 
package  in  his  hand.  "  You  see,  I  ought  to  do  my 
share  towards  keeping  the  mosquitoes  away,  and— - 
and  as  I  can't  smoke  I — I — really  thought  it  wasn't 
more  than  fair  that — that — "  here  she  broke  down 
and  blushed. 

*'  I — I — hope  you  ar'n't  offended  at  my  asking  you 
to  take  them  ?  " 

The  Nameless  one  glanced  with  a  smile  at  a  red  and 
gold  bunch  of  cigarettes  in  his  hand. 


A  TRIFLE  OF  INFORMATION.  1 67 

"  You  mustn't  smoke  them  if  you  don't  want  to,— 
but  I  fancy  they're  good." 

He  took  a  meditative  whiff.  A  peculiar  taste. 
Never  mind,  they  were  from  her — so  he  smoked  on, 
resolutely. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  ? "  he  asked,  and  sat  down  be- 
side her. 

Dolly  observed  him  with  some  trepidation, — she 
couldn't  help  thinking  that  the  Nameless  one  was 
taking  a  liberty;  he  had  never  shown  such  assurance 
before,  for,  though  they  generally  happened  together 
at  the  end,  he  always  started  respectfully  with  his  own 
side  of  the  bench. 

Dolly  pretended  to  read,  but  she  watched  him  out 
of  the  corner  of  her  eye  while  he  smoked  and  looked 
at  her  with,  yes,  with  frightful  emphasis. 

What  would  Priscilla  say  if  she  knew,  and — Dick  ! 
She, — Dorothy  Outerbridge, — had  bestowed  a  bunch 
of  Dick's  cigarettes  on  a  nameless  stranger,  whose 
only  passport  to  her  esteem  was  his  improving  con- 
versation and  his  well-fitting  clothes. 

As  it  was,  he  smoked  one  cigarette  after  another 
and  stared  at  her  with  equal  perseverance. 

For  all  practical  purposes,  considering  what  hearts 
are  for,  Dolly  had  hitherto  been  quite  unconscious  of 
hers,  but  now  it  began  to  beat  in  an  unpardonable 
manner,  and  she  looked  desperately  at  her  book. 

Half  of  the  red  and  gold  package  had  vanished 
into  thin  air,  and  the  Nameless  one  was  beginning  to 
regard  life  as  a  pleasant  dream,  the  more  so  as  he  was 
decidedly  drowsy. 

"  I'll  tell  Prissy  all,  and  I'll  never  come  here  again ! 
The  idea  of  sitting  there  and  not  saying  a  word  !  " 

She  stole  a  glance  at  him.  He  had  stopped  smoking 
and  passed  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  drowsily. 

Dolly  returned  to  her  book.     "  I  wonder  who  he 


1 68  A  TRIFLE   OF  INFORMATION. 

is, — the  idea  of  not  knowing  his  name.  I  beg  your 
pardon — what  did  you  say  ? " 

With  a  faint  exclamation  the  Nameless  one  rose 
to  his  feet,  with  one  hand  against  the  tree  for  support. 

"  It  is  nothing — a  sudden  dizziness,"  he  murmured, 
and  sank  down  on  the  bench  again. 

*'  Do  come  over  to  our  house,"  Dolly  cried,  "  we 
live  only  just  across  the  way — and  I  am  afraid  you 
are  ill." 

He  rose,  made  a  few  steps,  then  paused,  covering 
his  eyes  again.  "  I  don't  think  I  can — I — I — this 
dizziness — " 

"  You  must  take  my  arm.  No,  that  won't  do,  I'm 
not  tall  enough.  Just  put  your  hand  on  my  shoulder 
— don't  be  afraid,  I'm  strong.  Now  you  do  feel  stead- 
ier, don't  you  ? " 

He  obeyed,  and  it  took  forever  to  cross  the  road  to 
the  villa.  Dolly  felt  him  swerve,  and  she  grasped  his 
arm  with  all  her  young  strength.  "  Only  two  or  three 
steps  more.     Courage  !  " 

"  Forgive  me — I — I  " — here  he  made  a  hopeless 
effort  to  grasp  Dolly's  hand,  and  the  next  instant  he 
was  lying  unconscious  at  her  feet. 

Aunt  Mumler  heard  Dolly's  cry,  and  ran  out  to  find 
her  kneeling  beside  an  unknown  young  man,  trying 
to  raise  his  head. 

"  O  Aunt,  help  quick — he  is  dying !  Call  Priscilla 
— the  gardener — any  one  !  " 

Aunt  Mumler  was  paralyzed.  "  Get  up  this  instant, 
Dolly, — are  you  hurt  ?     Did  he  hurt  you  ? " 

"  O  Aunt,  don't  you  see  he'll  die  if  you  don't  do 
something !  He  must  be  put  into  Dick's  room  at 
once." 

Aunt  surrendered,  and  the  gardener  and  a  strapping 
maid  managed  it  between  them,  and  by  that  time  a 
doctor  arrived. 

Dolly  waited  for  him  outside  the  patient's  room. 


A  TRIFLE  OF  INFORMATION.  1 69 

"  What  ails  him,"  and  she  tried  to  rub  some  warmth 
into  her  trembling  hands. 

"  He  has  all  the  symptoms  of  opium  poisoning, — 
I  think  I  found  the  explanation  in  his  pocket,  a  bunch 
of  cigarettes." 

There  was  a  cry,  and  Dolly,  white  and  trembling, 
leaned  against  the  wall  for  support.  "  Will — will — 
will  he  die." 

"  He  is  young  and  strong,  and  so — " 

A  touch  of  color  crept  back  to  Dolly's  face. 

"  If  I  were  to  advise  the  gentleman — pardon  me, 
I  did  not  hear  his  name  ? " 

Dolly  stared  at  the  little  summer  doctor  with  fright- 
ened eyes. 

His  name,  indeed  ! 

"  B — Brown  !  "  Dolly  murmured,  and  clutched  the 
nearest  chair  for  support. 

"  Mr.  Brown  should  beware  of  cigarettes  unless  he 
wishes  to  kill  himself.  Those  he  has  been  smoking 
contained,  I  should  say,  a  murderous  proportion  of 
opium.  Quite  an  instructive  case,  my  dear  young 
lady." 

Aunt  Mumler  stepped  softly  out  of  Dick's  room 
and  found  Dolly  stranded  on  the  hall-settle,  crying 
torrents. 

"  Perhaps,  Dolly,  you'll  now  kindly  explain — why, 
child,  what  is  the  matter  ? "  For  Dolly  hung  about 
her  neck. 

"  Save  me.  Aunt,  save  me  ! " 

"  Save  you  ? " 

"  Don't  tell,  Aunt,  but  if  he  dies,  I'll  have  killed 
him ! " 

"  What ! " 

"  I  don't  know  him,  and  I  haven't  any  idea  what 
his  name  is,  but,  all  the  same,  I've  killed  him." 

*'  You're  crazy,  child." 

*'  I  wish  I  w^re  I  but  I  am  only  disgraced,  that's 
all." 


I/O  A  TRIFLE   OF  INFORMATION. 

"  Dolly ! " 

**  Dick's  cigarettes  killed  him,  and  I  gave  him  Dick's 
cigarettes — there !  " 

"  Dolly ! " 

"  That  horrid  doctor  would  know  his  name,  and  I 
had  to  say  something,"  here  she  wept  afresh,  "  and  so 
I  said  it  was  B — Brown." 

"  And  you  mean  to  say,  Dolly,  that  his  name  isn't 
Brown  ? " 

"  I  told  you  just  now  that  I  don't  know  what  his 
name  is ! " 

"  What  would  Dick  say  if  he  knew !  " 

"  I  couldn't  be  any  more  miserable  if  he  did,"  here 
she  shook  out  a  morsel  of  a  handkerchief  dripping 
with  tears,  and  hid  her  face  on  Aunt  Mumler's  shoul- 
der. 

"  Auntie,  if  you  ever  really  liked  me,  say  that  his 
name  is  B — Brown,  and  that  he  is  a  friend  of  yours 
from  America — he — he  speaks  just  the  nicest  Eng- 
lish," 

"But  suppose,  my  dear,  he  says  his  name  isn't 
Brown  ?  "  Aunt  Mumler  urged  feebly. 

"  It's  got  to  be." 

"  Dolly !  "  a  voice  called  from  above. 

"  There's  Priscilla,  and  she'll  want  to  know  !  It's 
just  too  dreadful !  " 

The  wretched  little  criminal  appeared  before  her 
judge.  Her  nose  was  red  with  friction  and  her  hand- 
kerchief could  absorb  no  more  moisture. 

"  Please  explain,  Dorothy !  " 

"You  see,  Prissy  dear,  we  were  having  such  a 
pleasant  time  together  until  to-day.  There  was  no 
harm,  really.  He  went  to  the  palace-garden  to  read, 
and  so  did  I — and — and  you  know  there  is  only  one 
bench.  His  conversation  was  always  very  respect- 
ful." 

"Oh,  indeed." 


A  TRIFLE  OF  INFORMATION.  1 7' 

"Yes,  truly.  But  there  were  a  great  many  mos- 
quitoes about,  and  as  he  smoked  just  to  oblige  me, 
I  thought  I  really  ought  to  do  my  share.  So  this 
morning,  I  never  dreamed  of  harm,  I  brought  him  a 
b — bunch  of  Dick's  cigarettes — and — there  he  is  now 
— downstairs  —  dy — dying  —  perhaps!"  and  Dolly 
gazed  about  for  something  fresh  into  which  to  weep. 

*'  Take  a  towel  and  damp  it  right  through,  if  you 
have  any  sense  of  propriety  left." 

"There's  another  thing,  Prissy,"  a  muffled  voice 
urged  from  behind  the  towel,  "  you've  got  to  call  him 
B — Brown.  The  Doctor  would  know  and  so  I  had  to 
say  something,  and  so  I  said  B — Brown,  and  he  is  sup- 
posed to  be  a  friend  of  Aunt's,  from  America.  She's 
ever  so  good  about  it.  If  I  could  see  him  just  a  min- 
ute, I'd  explain.  I  know  he'd  be  glad  to  say  his  name 
is  Brown,  to  oblige  me." 

"That  is  accommodating.  Well,  you  can't;  be- 
sides, he  is  too  ill  to  care  what  his  name  is." 

"  You  must  be  dreadfully  ashamed  of  me.  Prissy  !  " 

"  Rather,  Dolly,  child." 

"  I  don't  mind  that  so  much,  but  I  couldn't  bear  to 
have  Dick  ashamed.  Don't  tell  him,  dear,  and  you 
shall  see  how  grateful  I  can  be."  ' 

Whereupon  Dolly  went  in  search  of  her  aunt. 

"  Just  as  soon  as  he  knows  anything,  tell  him  his 
name  is  Brown,  that  I  told  you  so." 

"  I  can't,  Dolly,  besides  you  said  he  doesn't  know 
your  name." 

"That's  true.  But  you  tell  him  'the  girl  in  pink,* 
he'll  know.  He  likes  my  pink  dress  very  much — he 
said  so." 

"  Certainly  I  sha'n't  1 " 

"  Then  just  let  me  put  my  head  in  the  room  and 
say—" 

"  Child,  what  are  you  thinking  of  1 " 


1/2  A  TRIFLE   OF   INFORMATION. 

"  Well,  what  am  I  to  do !  Don't  be  so  unreason- 
able, Aunt !     Shall  I  write  him  a  note  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  dare  !  " 

"Then  how  is  he  to  know  his  name?  And  what 
am  I  to  do  ?  Besides,  he  may  be  dying  !  Oh,  Aunt, 
Aunt,  I  am  too  wretched.  Do  you  think  it  is  a  broken 
heart  ?     It  feels  more  like  that  than  anything  else." 


VI. 

THE  next  day  the  Nameless  one  rallied  and  looked 
about  perplexed.  An  old  lady,  beaming  mild 
sympathy  out  of  gold  spectacles,  came  towards  him. 

"  Where  am  I  ?  "  he  asked  in  German. 

"  You  must  speak  English,  we  are  Americans." 

"  Why  am  I  here,"  and  he  looked  in  deep  disap- 
proval at  the  bed. 

"  Because,  my  poor  boy,  you  have  been  very  ill." 

"  Humph  !— Where  am  I  ?  " 

"  In  Mrs.  Oldecott's  house,  dear.  Well,  I  don't 
suppose  you  would  know.     You  were  taken  ill  here." 

The  Nameless  one  suddenly  remembered. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  she  is  married,"  and 
he  stared  at  Aunt  Mumler  with  gaunt  eyes. 

"  Who  ? " 

"  That  is  just  what  I  don't  know — who !  But  it 
seems  that  Dick  is  her  brother,  and  that  Priscilla  is 
her  sister." 

"  You  probably  mean  my  niece,  Dorothy  Outer- 
bridge,"  Aunt  Mumler  said  with  dignity,  and  added 
under  her  breath,  "  who  is  a  little  fool,  or  you  wouldn't 
be  here,  young  man." 

However  she  treated  him  well,  in  fact  spoiled  him, 
and  gave  him  a  hand-glass  so  that  he  could  measure 
the  ravages  of  disease. 

"  When  he  is  stronger  he  shall  explain,"  she  de- 


A   TRIFLE   OF   INFORMATION.  1/3 

cided  severely.  The  Nameless  one  had  no  intention 
of  explaining,  so  he  took  refuge  in  weakness. 

Confess  his  name,  indeed,  and  have  his  family  come 
pouring  down  upon  him,  or,  worse  still,  to  be  packed 
off  home — never! 

"  To-morrow  you  will  be  on  your  feet  again,  Mr. 
Brown,"  the  Doctor  said  to  him  that  afternoon, 
"  but,  ha  !  ha  !  r\ot  independent  of  me." 

The  Nameless  one  stared.  Here  the  German  maid 
appeared.  "  Is  Mr.  Brown  to  have  soup  or  a  bit  of 
chicken  for  dinner  ?  " 

*'  Mr.  Brown  ? "  he  repeated,  in  growing  amaze- 
ment. 

"  He  is  ready  for  a  good  dinner,"  the  Doctor  said, 
genially. 

"  As  an  American  how  well  you  speak  German, 
Mr.  Brown.  I  suppose  you  spell  your  name  with  an 
'ow.'  We  Germans  spell  it  with  an  'au.'  You  are 
quite  like  a  German,  really,  and  Miss  Outerbridge  sur- 
prised me  when  she  said  you  were  an  American." 

"  Miss  Outerbridge  said  so  ?  Yes,  I  spell  my  name 
with  an  'ow,'"  and  he  smiled.  Shades  of  his  ances- 
tors !  What  melody  in  the  plebeian  name  of  Brown 
with  which  she  had  favored  him. 

When  dinner  time  came  he  was  famished,  and  he 
suffered  tortures  for  fear  that  he  should  recover  too 
soon. 

Mrs.  Oldecott  was  very  severe  with  Dolly.  "  Nurs- 
ing a  man  we  don't  know  from  Adam  !  A  man  who 
doesn't  tell  his  name,  too,  Dolly ;  that  looks  like  a 
very  bad  conscience." 

"  I  am  sure  that  he  is  a  gentleman,"  Dolly  remon- 
strated, much  subdued. 

*'  He  is  probably  something  dreadful." 

"  Don't,  please,  Prissy !  " 

"  What  would  Dick  say  if  he  knew  ? " 


174  A  TRIFLE  OF  INFORMATION. 

"  But  don't  make  it  any  worse,  Prissy !  Dick  is  in 
Baden-Baden." 

Priscilla  strolled  into  the  garden, — she  was  greatly 
annoyed.  A  familiar  voice  roused  her  from  her  un- 
pleasant meditations,  and  two  arms  were  thrown  about 
her  neck. 

"  Dearest  Mrs.  Oldecott,  I  have  not  seen  you  for 
an  age ! " 

"  Why,  Cordula,  where  have  you  been  ?  "  Cordula 
looked  at  her  divinity  through  eyeglasses  that  twinkled 
as  in  a  mist. 

"  Dearest,  you  knew  that  my  brother  came  ?  A  few 
days  ago  he  went  away  without  saying  a  word,  and  we 
have  not  heard  from  him  since,  and  we  are  so  anxious  ! 
He  has  done  this  before,  but  he  never  stayed  away  so 
long.     We  don't  know  what  to  do." 

"  He'll  be  sure  to  come  back,  dear ;  don't  worry. 
When  he  does  come,  give  him  a  good  scolding.  You 
spoil  him  terribly." 

As  Cordula  went  away,  an  aged  man  hobbled  to- 
wards Priscilla  with  a  telegram.  He  was  a  familiar 
visitor,  for  Dick  did  most  of  his  correspondence  by 
wire,  but  Priscilla  stared  at  this  message  in  consterna- 
tion. 

"  Homesick  for  you  and  Dolly.  Am  on  the  train  to 
St.  Severin.     Dick." 

"  What  shall  I  do  ? "  was  all  she  could  say,  but,  in- 
deed, there  was  little  to  do,  for  at  that  moment  a  dilap- 
idated depot-carriage  turned  in  at  the  gate. 

"  Here  I  am,  Prissy ;  glad  to  see  me  ?  Where  is 
Dolly  ?  "  and  the  next  instant  she  was  in  Dick's  arms. 

"Just  what  I  expected, — telegram  and  I  came  to- 
gether !  A  regular  one-horse  country  1  I  say,  are 
you  glad  to  see  me  ? " 

'*  Don't  be  foolish,  Dick,"  and  she  struggled  out 
of  his  grasp. 


A   TRIFLE   OF  INFORMATION.  175 

"  Is  this  the  welcome  for  which  I  have  been  pin- 
ing ?     Same  room,  eh  ?  " 

In  a  moment  he  would  have  dashed  in,  only  Dolly 
barred  the  way. 

«  Why,  Dolly,  old  girl,  what's  up  ?  " 

"There — there — is  some  one  ill  here,  Dick." 

"  Don't  say  Aunt  is  laid  up." 

"  N — no — it's  a — a  friend." 

"  Didn't  know  we  had  friends  here  on  such  inti- 
mate terms.  Anything  catching  ?  If  she  is  a  real, 
nice,  jolly  American,  why — I  say,  Prissy,  what  is 
up  ? " 

"  I — I — meant  to  say,  Dick  dear,  that  it's  a  gentle- 
man, a — a  friend  of  Aunt's,"  Dolly  interposed  faintly. 

"  I  see,  some  crony  of  Aunt's, — old  Baptist  parson 
from  down  East  on  a  Cook's  excursion.  Got  banged 
up  and  lets  himself  down  on  a  parishioner.  What's 
his  name,  Dolly  ?  " 

"  B— Brown." 

"Thank  Heaven,  that  won't  wear  my  memory  out 
as  most  of  these  infernal  foreign  names  do.  Don't 
bother  about  me,  girls,  stow  me  anywhere." 

Aunt  Mumler  found  Dick  in  the  midst  of  chaos,  in 
his  new  quarters.  He  lit  a  cigar  and  resigned  his 
wardrobe  to  her  care.  • 

"  I  say.  Aunt,  how  is  the  old  man  ?  " 

"  What  old  man,  Dick  ?  " 

"Why,  your  sick  old  man  downstairs." 

*'  O  but  he  isn't  old,  he  is  young." 

Dick  whistled  softly.     "  From  Portland,  eh  ? " 

"No — no — not  exactly.  He's  a  German  young 
man,"  and  Aunt  Mumler  tried  to  hide  her  confusion 
in  a  bureau-drawer. 

"  By  the  name  of  Brown  ? " 

"Y— yes,  Oyes." 

"  Humph, — been  very  ill  ? " 

"  Dreadfully.     But  he's  up  now  and  dressed." 


176  A   TRIFLE   OF  INFORMATION. 

"What  kind  of  a  chap  is  he  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  charming  and  so  handsome." 

"  I'd  like  to  see  your  paragon.  Guess  he'll  be  glad 
to  talk  to  a  man  for  a  change." 

"I'll  inquire,  Dick,"  and  Aunt  Mumler  fled  in 
search  of  Dolly.  "  I  simply  can't  keep  Dick  out  of 
that  room,  child." 

"  Very  well,  then,  but  I  must  speak  to  him  before 
Dick  does,"  Dolly  cried  in  despair. 

The  Nameless  one  was  in  very  low  spirits  when 
there  came  a  hesitating  knock  at  the  door,  and  Aunt 
Mumler  appeared,  followed  by  a  young  person  in 
pink,  whose  lips  quivered  at  sight  of  him. 

"  At  last,"  (or  words  to  that  effect)  he  stammered, 
and  rose  rather  unsteadily  to  his  feet. 

"  Forgive  me — do  forgive  me !  it  was  all  my  fault," 
Dolly  cried,  though  that  was  not  at  all  what  she 
meant  to  say,  and  she  let  him  hold  her  hand  as  if  he 
could  never  let  it  go  again,  and  that  was  not  at  all 
what  she  meant  to  do. 

Aunt  Mumler  coughed  back  the  proprieties. 

"  I — I — came  to  tell  you  that  my  brother  has  ar- 
rived, and  that  he  wishes  to  see  you."  Here  Dolly 
paused  and  looked  at  him  with  tragic  eyes. 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  to  meet — " 

"  Yes,  but  you  don't  see  how  dreadful  it  is  for  me, 

for  I — I — have  been  telling  such  awful lies  ! 

And  Dick  will  find  them  all  out  and  I  shall  be  dis- 
graced," and  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  You disgraced  !    Surely  you  are  dreaming  !  " 

"N — no,"  she  sobbed;  "I  felt  obliged  to  give  you 
a  name ;  the  doctor  would  ask,  and  there  was  Dick, 
and  so — so  we've  called  you — B — Brown,  and  that — 
that's  what  I've  come  to  tell  you,  so  you'll  know  what 
to  do." 

"  Do  forgive  me,  though  I  hardly  can  forgive  my- 
self !     I  never  thought  to  what  my  silence  might  ex- 


A  TRIFLE   OF  INFORMATION.  177 

• 

pose  you.  My  excuse  is  that  I  was  too  ill  at  first  to 
quite  realize.     My  name  is " 

"  Don't  tell  me,  I  don't  want  to  know,"  Dolly  cried 
in  a  reaction  of  emotion.  "  Everybody  will  know  then, 
and  that  I  tell  lies.  All  I  beg  of  you  is  that  you  call 
yourself  B — Brown  as  long  as  you  are  here,  for  if 
Dick  should  know  he'd  never  forgive  me.  I — I — 
was  considered  a  very  truthful  person,"  and  her  lips 
trembled. 

"  I  understand ;  you  think  it  is  easier  to  forget  me 
without  a  name." 

"  I  couldn't  forget  you  !  " 

"  Dolly !  "  Aunt  Mumler  interposed. 

"  I — I — couldn't,  Aunt,  I  have  had  such  a  horrid 
time  ever  since." 

"  You  may  be  sure  I  shall  release  you  at  once  from 
my  troublesome  presence,"  he  retorted,  injured. 

"  I  don't  mean  that,  either,"  and  she  held  out  her 
hand  to  him  with  a  gesture  of  entreaty.  "  You  know 
I  mean  well,  but  I  do  somehow  say  the  wrong  things. 
Priscilla  never  does ;  you'll  like  her  a  great  deal  bet- 
ter than  you  do  me " 

"  Dolly ! " 

"  Well,  I'm  going,  Aunt.  I  dare  say  Dick  is  dying 
to  come  in  and  ask  questions.     O  dear  me ! " 


VII. 

CAPTAIN  OUTERBRIDGE  examined  Mr.  Brown 
with  thoughtful  curiosity,  as  that  gentleman  ex- 
pressed his  sense  of  obligation. 

*'  As  a  friend  of  Aunt  Mumler's  they  would  do  any- 
thing for  you — Mr. — a — Brown." 

Dick  spoke  the  name  so  deliberately,  that  its  tem- 
porary possessor  turned  crimson. 

12 


1/8  A  TRIFLE  OF  INFORMATION. 

Captain  Outerbridge  gazed  at  him  as  one  who  is 
searching  the  recesses  of  memory. 

"  What  excellent  English  you  speak,  Mr.  Brown." 

"  I — I — live  in  London." 

"London?  Nice  place  except  on  Sundays. — In 
business  ? " 

"  I  am  attached  to  the  German  embassy,"  the 
Nameless  one  explained,  off  his  guard. 

"  Indeed,"and  Dick  leaned  forward  on  one  elbow. 
'*  I  was  at  a  ball  there  last  spring.  Delightful  quar- 
ters. Fine  supper,  too.  Our  own  minister  feeds  the 
free  and  independent,  and  somehow  it  flavors  the 
cookery." 

As  Dick  finished  his  cigar  that  night  he  turned  to 
Dolly,  who  gave  a  nervous  start. 

"  Come  upstairs,  Dolly,  I've  something  to  say  to 
you." 
' "  Please  say  it  here." 

"  Do  you  think  I  want  my  remarks  tacked  down  in 
Aunt's  diary  and  sent  to  Portland  ?  " 

Captain  Outerbridge  lighted  his  lamp  with  elabo- 
rate slowness. 

"  Now  then,  Dolly,  about— Mr.  Brown." 

There  never  was  so  eloquent  a  pause  as  preceded 
Mr.  Brown  ;  Dolly  surrendered  at  once. 

"What  is  his  real  name  ?  " 

"  I— I— don't  know." 

"  Yet  you  turn  this  house  into  a  hospital  for  a  man 
whose  very  name  you  don't  know  !  " 

"Please — please,  don't  be  angry,  Dick." 

"  Now,  how  did  this  all  happen  ?  " 

"  I — I  really  can't  tell  you." 

"  You'd  better,  if  you  wish  me  to  get  you  out  of  a 
scrape." 

Then  Dolly  hung  her  head  and  confessed  how  the 
Nameless  one  had  been  poisoned  by  Dick's  cigarettes, 
bestowed  on  him  by  Dick's  own  sister. 


A  TRIFLE  OF  INFORMATION.  1/9 

"  By  George,  but  you  gave  him  a  dose  !  "  and  Dick 
whistled  gently,  "  Why,  they're  not  fit  to  smoke. 
They're  Sam  Mallory's  experiment — he  sent  them 
to  me  and  said  the  effect  was  blissful.  Two  nearly 
floored  me.  I  meant  to  throw  them  away,  but  I  for- 
got. I  say,  Dolly,  if  this  man  didn't  tell  his  name 
as  soon  as  he  came  to  his  senses,  it  is  because  he  is 
either  afraid  or  ashamed." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  Dick  !  " 

"  Then  prepare  yourself,  my  child.  Your  Mr. 
Brown  is  no  stranger  to  me."  Dolly  stared,  spell- 
bound. 

"  Do  you  remember  what  you  wrote  me  about  a 
suspected  forger  who  is  moving  in  the  best  society 
here  ?  Not  a  common  forger,  you  said,  but  decidedly 
aristocratic  ?  You  rather  hoped  he  would  fall  in  love 
with  you — " 

"  Dick,  don't  say  another  word  !  I  cannot  bear  it, 
— I  have  been  punished  enough !  O  I'm  so  wretch- 
edly unhappy." 

Captain  Outerbridge  the  next  morning  strolled  into 
the  Nameless  one's  room  and  found  him  drumming  a 
dreary  tune  on  the  window  pane. 

"  You  will  be  sorry  to  hear  that  my  sister  Dolly  is 
ill,"  he  said  politely,  "  and  she  so  regrets  not  tb  see 
you  again  before  you  go." 

The  Nameless  one  looked  helplessly  at  the  Captain, 
but  he  was  bound  in  honor  not  to  explain. 

Was  the  Captain  really  so  obtuse  as  not  to  see  that 
though  he  was  an  impostor,  he  was  a  very  respectable 
one? 

That  night,  like  the  prodigal  son,  Baron  Kurt  re- 
turned to  the  home  of  his  ancestors  with  a  look  on 
his  face  which  forbade  interrogations. 

The  fatted  calf  took  the  shape  of  an  extra  fine  bot- 
tle of  Johannisberger,  and  Cordula  hung  about  her 
brother's  neck,  dissolved  in  tears. 


l8o  A   TRIFLE   OF  INFORMATION. 

"  She  said  you'd  come  back." 

"  Who  ?     Your  widow  ?  " 

"  She  said  we  were  spoiling  you." 

"  Perhaps  she  would  like  to  try  a  hand  at  it  her- 
self." 

"You  are  greatly  mistaken,  Mrs.  Oldecott  would 
never — " 

"  Cordula !     Who  ? " 

"  My  dear  friend,  Mrs.  Oldecott." 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  her  name  before  ?  " 

"  You  never  listened." 

Serenity  returned  to  Baron  Stendal's  heart.  With 
Cordula's  help  he  would  again  penetrate  into  that  en- 
chanted abode,  with  colors  flying  and  drums  playing. 
He  was  prepared  to  sacrifice  the  whole  Stendal 
tribe,  a  diplomatic  career,  and  his  own  untrammeled 
affections,  on  the  altar  of  a  young  person  in  pink,  who 
read  fairy  tales  and  who  had  bestowed  on  him,  Baron 
Stendal,  the  plebeian  name  of  Brown. 

Now  that  the  prodigal  had  returned,  the  family  un- 
derwent a  reaction,  and  glared  at  him.  Kurt  declined 
to  inhale  this  reproachful  atmosphere  any  longer. 
He  strolled  towards  his  sister  and  kissed  her  with 
unusual  warmth.  "  I'll  call  on  Mrs.  Oldecott  with 
you  to-morrow,  child." 

"  I  have  no  intention  of  taking  you,  Kurt." 

Here  again,  like  the  prodigal  son.  Baron  Kurt  pro- 
ceeded to  picic  up  the  crumbs  of  what  had  once  been 
a  goodly  feast  waiting  his  pleasure.     Such  is  life  ! 


vni. 

A  HAMMOCK  swung  under  the  linden  trees  be- 
fore the  drawing-room  windows.     In  it  lay  Dick, 
smoking  and  meditating. 

To  him  appeared  Aunt  Mumler  with  an  air-cushion, 


A   TRIFLE  OF  INFORMATION.  l8l 

which  she  proceeded  to  blow  up,  like  an  ancient 
cherub. 

"  For  your  head,  Dick,  child.  Hadn't  we  better 
send  for  the  doctor, — Dolly  looks  so  ill." 

"  Serve  her  right !  " 

*'  Serve  her  right  ?     Why — what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  She  is  worrying,  of  course.  What  business  have 
you  fools  of  women  to  take  in  a  strange  man,  and  to 
coddle  him  !     You'll  be  town-talk  next." 

"  We  only  did  our  duty, — he  was  sick  and  we  took 
him  in.  I'd  have  done  it  in  Portland  just  the  same — 
such  a  lovely,  considerate  young  man,  and  such  a  gen- 
tleman ! " 

"  Have  you  heard  that  this  place  is  the  headquar- 
ters of  a  band  of  forgers,  Aunt  Mumler  ? "  Dick  in- 
terposed, gravely, 

"  Bless  me,  yes,  so  I  have,"  and  she  stared  at  him. 

Dick  turned  away. 

"At  the  same  time  what  has  that  to  do  with  this 
young  man  ?  I  don't  understand  !  Dick,  I  insist,  I 
really  must  insist !  You  don't  dare  to  tell  me  that 
this  gentleman,  this  perfect  gentleman,  is  connected 
with Richard,  why  don't  you  speak  !  " 

"  I  have  nothing  further  to  say,"  he  replied,  in  a 
faint  voice,  and  before  Aunt  Mumler  could  a%k  an- 
other question,  he  swung  himself  out  of  the  hammock 
and  strolled  away. 

She  turned — still  aghast — at  sound  of  a  light  foot- 
fall.    It  was  Dolly,  a  picture  of  woe  and  humility. 

"  Goodness,  child,  how  you  look !  There,  lie  down. 
Don't  worry,  it  will  all  come  right." 

Dolly  obeyed  and  turned  her  poor  little  face  from 
the  sight  of  mankind  in  general  and  of  Cordula  von 
Stendal  in  particular,  who  came  up  the  garden  path 
in  search  of  her  divinity. 

She  found  Priscilla  in  the  summer-house,  bored 


1 82  A   TRIFLE  OF  INFORMATION. 

with  St.  Severin,  indignant  with  Dolly,  and  frosty 
with  Cordula  herself. 

"  You  were  right,  dear  Mrs.  Oldecott,  my  brother 
has  returned.  He  looks  very  ill  and  he  is  cross. 
But  even  mamma  doesn't  dare  to  ask  him  where  he 
has  been.  Do  you  know,  I  have  punished  him." 
Cordula  was  triumphant.  "  He  was  coming  to  call 
on  you ;  he  just  begged  me  to  take  him,  and  do  you 
know  what  I  did  ?  1  left  him  waiting  for  me  at  one 
door,  while  I  ran  away  by  another." 

Priscilla  declined  to  be  amused — she  was  pining 
for  society,  and  she  thought  that  even  a  heavy  diplo- 
matist might  be  better  than  nobody. 

"  My  brother  has  come  back  from  Baden-Baden, 
Cordula.     There  he  is,  don't  move." 

Cordula  made  an  awkward  bow  in  answer  to  the 
Captain's  graceful  salutation,  and  becoming  a  prey 
to  shyness,  she  bade  her  adored  friend  good-by  and 
fled,  with  a  desperate  nod  to  the  Captain. 

"  'Pon  my  word.  Prissy,  she  is  just  like  a  green 
apple,"  and  Dick's  face  puckered  up,  as  if  he  had 
taken  a  bite  out  of  something  very  sour. 

Cordula  ran  until  she  reached  the  foot-path  to 
Castle  Stendal,  where  she  met  a  tall  man,  who  greet- 
ed her  as  one  injured  and  indignant. 

"  I  waited  half  an  hour  at  least,  and  then  I  found 
you  had  gone." 

"  I  hate  to  go  calling  with  a  martyr,"  she  replied, 
pertly. 

"  I  told  you  distinctly  that  nothing  would  give  me 
greater  pleasure." 

"  Don't  you  think  I  understand,  Kurt  ?  You  have 
fallen  in  love  with  Mrs.  Oldecott, — I  dare  say  you  have 
seen  her  somewhere.  Don't  think  I  am  blind !  but  I 
sha'n't  help  you  !  "  and  Cordula  retreated  in  just  re- 
sentment, partly  on  account  of  Kurt,  but  principally 


A   TRIFLE  OF  INFORMATION.  1 83 

in  remembrance  of  that  elaborate  bow  with  which  she 
had  been  favored  by  Captain  Outerbridge. 

Dolly  felt  so  humiliated  that  the  very  sight  of  her 
reproachful  family  was  unendurable.  So  she  avoided 
everybody  and  sought  a  spot  where  she  could  be  alone 
with  her  disgrace. 

Instinctively  she  strayed  into  a  certain  deserted 
garden,  where,  under  an  apple  tree,  there  stood  a  man- 
trap in  the  shape  of  a  wooden  bench. 

She  sank  wearily  down  in  the  old  place  and  closed 
her  eyes,  oblivious  to  all  things. 

Just  then  another  person  sauntered  in,  his  tread 
dulled  by  the  heavy  grass. 

He  had  come  for  the  simple  reason  that  he  wanted 
to  see  again  the  divine  spot  where  for  the  first  time  he 
had  found  a  little  person  in  pink  ;  perhaps  to  discover 
in  this  inspired  place  a  solution  for  his  happiness. 

He  looked  up  from  meditation  and  stood  spell- 
bound, for  there,  in  the  old  place,  sat  the  girl  of  his 
heart,  her  dear  eyes  closed. 

He  sighed  for  very  happiness,  and  Dolly  looked  up. 
The  quick  blood  flushed  her  face,  and  she  gazed  at 
him  with  mute  reproach,  while  her  heart  beat  so  fast 
that  she  could  not  speak.  ' 

"  Why  are  you  here  ?  "  she  stammered  at  last. 

The  Baron  was  so  astounded  that  he  hesitated,  with 
the  semblance  of  a  very  bad  conscience. 

"  Had  I  known  you  were  here,"  he  said,  recover- 
ing himself,  "  I  should,  yes,  I  should  have  been  sure 
to  come." 

"  How  dare  you  speak  so  to  me ! "  and  Dolly  hid 
her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  Dare  ?  If  my  presence  is  so  hateful  to  you 
I " 

"  I — I — hoped  that  you  had  left  St.  Severin,"  she 
sobbed,  "  but  it  is  best  to  tell  you — I  know — all." 


1 84  A  TRIFLE   OF  INFORMATION. 

"Who  told  you?" 

"  My  brother." 

"  I  thought  he  recognized  me.  But,  surely,  you 
must  confess  that  I  am  not  quite  to  blame  ?  " 

"  I — I — am  very  sorry  for  you, — I  dare  say  you 
were  terribly  tempted." 

"  Indeed  I  was,"  he  cried  eagerly,  "  and  you  may 
well  be  sorry  for  me,  if  such  a  trifle  has  caused  me  to 
lose  your  regard." 

"  A  trifle  ? "  and  she  looked  at  him  aghast. 

"  If  you  knew  what  those  days  were  to  me,  you 
would  understand." 

*'  Don't — don't,  I  want  to  forget  them  forever  !  " 

"  If  you  but  knew  how  I  love  you,  you  would " 

"  Don't — don't  speak  of  love  to  me — the  man  you 
are ! " 

"  The  man  I  am  ! — Miss  Outerbridge  ?^ " 

Here  Dolly  dried  her  eyes,  and  made  a  little  speech. 

"  I'll  tell  you  something,  though  it  is  just  too  dread- 
ful ! — I — really  do  like  you — there  !  Perhaps  it  will 
help  you  in  the  future,  and  you  will — repent." 

"Repent?" 

"And  I'll  just  as  lief  promise  never  to  marry  any- 
one, if  you  wish.  I  don't  mind,  for  I  feel  too  dread- 
fully old." 

"  Miss  Outerbridge — Dolly — " 

"  Please  don't  touch  me  !  Oh,  if  I  had  only  known 
who  you  were  !  " 

"  Was  I  quite  to  blame  for  not  telling  you  at  once  ? 
When  I  found  myself  ill  and  in  your  house,  I  could 
not  give  up  the  joy  of  being  under  the  same  roof  with 
you — foolish  and  wrong  though  it  was.  I  could  not 
bear  to  be  taken  to  Castle  Stendal " 

"Taken  where?  "  and  Dolly  held  her  breath. 

"  Love  makes  us  so  selfish,"  he  continued,  heed- 
less of  interruption.  "To  be  under  your  roof,  for 
the  sound  of  your  voice — for  a  possible  glimpse  of 


A  TRIFLE   OF  INFORMATION.  1 8$ 

your  dear  face,  I  sacrificed  my  whole  family,  and  all 
I  get  for  this  is  to  be  told  to  repent,  as  if  I  had  com- 
mitted a  terrible  crime,"  and  he  turned  away  without 
another  look. 

"  Forgive  me, — forgive  me  !  "  and  an  appealing 
hand  was  laid  on  his  arm.  "  I — I  did  not  know  that 
you  were — I  mean,  I — I — mean  I  thought  you  were 
some  one  else." 

"  Did  you  not  say  that  Captain  Outerbridge  told 
you — " 

"  I — I — can't  explain  !  But  please  say  you  forgive 
me — and — and — I  suppose  you  don't  care  a  bit  now 
whether  I  ever  do  get  married  or  not." 

**  I  should  care,  my  darling,  unless  you  married 
me,"  and  he  held  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  it  ?  And  you  won't  repent  ? 
And  what  do  you  see  in  me  to  love  ?  But  please 
don't  repent,  dear !  "  and  she  put  her  arms  about  his 
neck  and  hid  her  face,  and  so  Dick  found  them  as  he 
strolled  over  in  search  of  Dolly. 

"  Now,  Captain  Outerbridge,  will  you  kindly  ex- 
plain ? " 

"  Pardon,  Baron  Stendal,  will  you  kindly  explain," 
and  Dick  glanced  at  Dolly,  blushing  and  crun^led. 

"  Dick,  you  knew  who  he  is,  and  yet  you  told 
me " 

Dick  was  as  calm  and  sunny  as  a  May  morning. 

*'  Dick,  you  spoke  of — of  forgers  the  other  day." 

"  I  believe  I  did." 

"  And  you  said  that — that  this  gentleman  was  one 
of  the " 

"  I  didn't !  But  if  you  will  jump  at  ridiculous  con- 
clusions  " 

"  Dick ! " 

"I  have  been  looking  for  you,  Richard." 

It  was  Aunt  Mumler.     "  Priscilla  wants  you." 

Here  she  started  back  in  dismay,  at  sight  of  Baron 


1 86  A  TRIFLE  OF  INFORMATION. 

Stendal,  while  Dolly  grasped  her  arm  with  painful 
emphasis. 

"  What  did  Dick  say  about  this  gentleman  ? " 

"  That — that — there  1  I  can't  and  I  won't  believe 
it!" 

"  He  said  he  belonged  to  the  forgers  !  "  Dolly  de- 
clared, with  tragic  denunciation. 

"  I  didn't,"  the  culprit  replied,  unmoved,  "  for  that 
would  have  been  absurd,  since  I  recognized  him  at 
once  as  Baron  Stendal,  for  I  saw  him  in  London  at 
a  ball  at  the  German  embassy.  But  I  was  rather 
surprised  to  meet  him  again  in  our  house  as  Mr. — 
Brown." 

"  Will  you  please  explain  about  the  forgers,  Dick  ?  " 

"  All  I  said  was  that  there  is  supposed  to  be  a  band 
of  forgers  here.  Don't  you  remember,  Dolly,  writing 
about  them  ? " 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  Baron  Stendal  ? " 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  and  Dick  opened  his 
cheerful  eyes  very  wide.  "  It  was  simply  a  trifle  of 
information,  and  anything  is  interesting  in  this  dull 
place." 

Dolly  began  with  withering  scorn,  and  ended  by 
laughing  on  Dick's  shoulder. 

"You  see  it  was  only  a  little  misunderstanding. 
Baron  Stendal.  Dolly,  I  really  must  go.  Suppose 
you  stay  and  explain.     After  all,  you  are  to  blame." 

The  morning  passed,  luncheon  time  came,  but 
neither  Dolly  nor  the  Baron.  So  Dick  sauntered 
across  to  the  apple  tree,  to  announce  the  prose  of 
existence. 

At  sight  of  her  brother,  Dolly  tried  to  draw  her 
hand  out  of  Kurt's. 

"  The  explanation  seems  rather  long  ?  " 

"For  life,"  Baron  Stendal  answered  gayly,  and 
drew  Dolly  still  closer. 


A  TRIFLE  OF  INFORMATION.  1 87 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  laughing  eyes.  "  We'll 
be  grateful,  and  put  up  a  monument  here." 

"A  monument? " 

"  To  the  mosquitoes,  of  course  !  Don't  you  see, 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  those  dear  mosquitoes,  we  would 
never " 

And  that  was  true ! 


MR.  CARMICHAEL'S  CONVERSION. 

A  NINETEENTH-CENTURY  MIRACLE. 
I. 

THE  gout  and  whaling-voyages  not  being  compati- 
ble, Captain  Jonathan  Dunlow  gave  up  the  latter 
to  attend  to  the  former. 

He  anchored  in  the  old  Portsmouth  harbor  for  the 
last  time,  and  would  have  felt  much  sadder  as  he 
passed  the  harbor-light,  if  at  that  moment  a  twinge  of 
his  enemy  in  the  great  toe  of  his  left  foot,  had  not 
warned  him  that  it  was  high  time  to  settle  down.  So 
Captain  Dunlow  anchored  the  Lovely  Sal  at  the 
weather-beaten  wharf,  and  watched  her  a  moment 
after  he  landed  with  a  choking  sensation  in  his  throat. 
The  only  things  he  took  with  him  to  remind  him 
of  his  past  career,  were  his  telescope  and  speaking- 
trumpet  ;  indeed,  unimportant  as  this  fact  may  seem, 
had  he  left  them  behind  there  would  have  been  no 
story  to  tell.  With  these  under  his  arm  he  lounged 
down  the  silent  streets  of  Portsmouth  town,  with  the 
afternoon  sun  blinking  lazily  on  the  hot  cobblestones, 
and  at  last  knocked  at  the  widow  Curdy's  front  door. 

"  My  goodness,  mum  !  it's  the  capt'in,  come  home 
for  good,"  the  maid-of-all-work  cried,  hanging  out  of 
a  convenient  window. 

"  Open  the  door,  you  !    D'ye  think  I  like  to  broil !  " 

the  captain  shouted  irritably  \  and  in  a  moment  more 

he  was  ushered  from  the  glaring  light  of  day  into  the 

coolness  of  a  long,  broad  corridor — cool  by  reason 

(i88) 


MR.   CARMICHAEL'S   CONVERSION.         1 89 

of  generous  doors,  cooler  for  the  presence  of  the  widow 
Curdy  gliding  downstairs,  thin  and  long  and  exasper- 
atingly  chilly,  the  captain  justly  thought  as  he  threw 
himself  into  an  easy  chair  and  mopped  his  head  mean- 
while with  a  bandanna  handkerchief  of  a  fiery  scarlet. 
Captain  Dunlow  was  a  short,  thick-set  man,  weather- 
beaten  and  heavy -featured,  but  with  shrewd  gray 
eyes,  which  he  winked  knowingly.  Being  the  widow 
Curdy's  only  lodger,  he  was  the  subject  of  fond  specu- 
lations to  that  estimable  woman ;  still,  in  spite  of  the 
undoubted  advantages  she  possessed,  the  captain's 
heart  remained  untouched,  and  three  days  after  his 
reappearance,  he  collected  his  luggage,  paid  his  bill, 
and,  with  his  telescope  and  speaking-trumpet  once 
more  under  his  arm,  disappeared  forever  out  of  the 
widow  Curdy's  horizon. 


II. 

COULD  Fate,  in  connecting  the  lives  of  people,  at 
the  same  time  draw  between  them  a  thread  of 
light,  in  what  a  curious  mesh  we  should  be  entangled  1 
Could  such  a  thing  be,  then  would  there  have  been  a 
delicate  connecting  link  between  Mr.  Carmich'ael  of 
Milboro'  and  Captain  Dunlow,  at  that  moment  hazard- 
ing his  life  on  the  top  of  a  New  Hampshire  stage- 
coach, and  still  clinging  to  the  telescope  and  the 
speaking-trumpet.  His  disappearance  from  under 
Mrs.  Curdy's  roof  was  not  nearly  so  mysterious  as  it 
might  at  first  seem,  for  he  had  long  since  contemplated 
occupying  a  certain  little  farm  on  Milboro'  hillside, 
as  soon  as  he  could  get  his  sister  Dinah  to  keep  house 
for  him. 

Mr.  Carmichael  was  at  that  identical  moment  in 
his  own  home  in  South  Milboro',  lying  on  his  bed,  with 
a  vacant  look  in  his  eyes,  and  an  unkempt  aspect  to 


ICp         MR.   CARMICHAEL'S   CONVERSION. 

his  hair,  which,  with  the  perfume  of  bad  whiskey  about, 
if  it  did  not  explain,  at  least  hinted  at  Mr.  Carmi- 
chael's  condition. 

There  was  a  boot  and  shoe  factory  in  Milboro' 
which  in  prosperous  times  had  given  Mr.  Carmichael 
sufficient  work  to  do,  till  one  day,  elated  by  too  much 
prosperity,  he  came  near  taking  to  himself  a  wife  ;  of 
which,  for  reasons  best  known  to  himself,  he  had 
thought  better.  But  from  that  day,  curiously  enough, 
his  good  luck  deserted  him,  till  he  had  no  work  and 
could  get  none,  and  there  seemed  no  hope  in  living. 
It  being  injudicious  to  kill  himself  outright,  Mr.  Car- 
michael concluded  to  stupefy  himself,  which  he  pro- 
ceeded to  do  as  fast  as  he  conveniently  could.  Mr. 
Carmichael,  then,  lay  on  the  bed  in  a  stifling  little 
room  that  late  summer  afternoon,  just  as  the  captain, 
having  at  last  reached  his  destination,  was  sitting  on 
the  veranda  of  his  farm  on  the  hill,  while  he  smoked  a 
comforting  pipe,  and  watched  the  eastern  hills  turn 
purple,  and  the  western  capped  an  instant  with  the 
last  superb  radiance  of  the  sinking  sun. 

"  Dinah  " — and  the  captain  turned  to  his  sister,  who 
was  knitting  near  him — "  it  may  do  well  enough  for 
landlubbers,"  nodding  his  head  at  the  offending  moun- 
tains, "  but  it  just  chokes  me.  If  I'd  been  the  Lord, 
I'd  made  the  world  all  water." 

Miss  Dunlow  looked  up  to  heaven  in  pious  horror, 
and  felt  certain,  of  what  she  had  before  only  suspected, 
that  Jonathan's  soul  needed  saving  very  badly. 

Mr.  Carmichael,  too,  could  see  the  mountains  from 
his  solitary  window,  but  they  did  not  trouble  him 
much,  and  he  would  have  remained  passive  at  least, 
if  an  inquisitive  hen  had  not  wandered  in  at  the  open 
door,  which  so  unexpectedly  incensed  him  that  he 
sent  his  solitary  pillow  flying  after  her,  with  little 
damage  to  either.  So  the  summer  sun  sank  behind 
the  hills  and  hid  them  from  Captain  Dunlow's  pro- 


MR.  CARMICHAEL'S  CONVERSION.         IQI 

testing  eyes,  and  at  the  same  time  kindly  extinguished 
the  man  named  Carmichael,  who  at  that  moment  had 
in  his  low  soul  neither  courage  to  live  nor  courage  to 
die. 

III. 

MISS  DUNLOW  called  it  a  freak,  but  the  captain 
declared,  he'd  be  darned  if  he  cared  what  she 
called  it. 

The  matter  was,  that  the  captain,  with  a  fond  recol- 
lection of  the  deck  of  the  Lovely  Sal,  had  taken  pos- 
session of  the  rotunda  on  the  roof,  which  was,  however, 
in  common  language,  nothing  but  a  small  square  room 
with  a  window  on  each  side.  Here  he  placed  his 
telescope  on  a  stand  of  his  own  construction,  and  on 
the  wall  behind  it  he  hung  his  speaking-trumpet,  oc- 
casionally amusing  himself  by  bellowing  down  at  un- 
wary passers-by ;  and,  what  with  scanning  the  whole 
neighborhood  with  his  telescope,  Milboro'  might  be 
said  to  be  an  open  book  to  the  captain.  Sometimes, 
by  gazing  fixedly  at  the  sky  through  his  telescope  or 
staring  steadily  at  the  small  stream  in  the  valley  as  it 
rippled  by,  he  could  delude  himself  into  the  innocent 
belief  that  he  was  still  sailing  the  Lovely  Sa/,  espe- 
cially if  he  accompanied  the  act  by  a  vigorous  motion 
of  his  rocking-chair. 

The  house  lay  quite  high  up  on  the  side  of  a  hill, 
with  a  fine  stretch  of  cultivated  ground  about.  But, 
beyond  the  sloping  fields,  there  were  acres  of  dense 
woods,  with  a  bit  of  clearing  in  one  place  showing  a 
tremendous  rent  in  the  granite  rocks,  with  a  few  lonely 
pine  trees  overshadowing  the  black  chasm,  where 
nothing  grew  but  dogwood  and  poison-ivy  ;  the  whole, 
from  its  gloom  and  foreboding  sternness,  called  "  Pur- 
gatory "  by  the  country  folks.  The  captain  in  his 
tower,  half  a  mile  away,  could  see  this  dimly,  but 


192         MR.   CARMICHAEL'S   CONVERSION. 

every  inch  of  ground  was  distinct  to  his  sight  as  soon 
as  he  put  his  faithful  telescope  to  his  eye. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  Mr.  Carmichael's  good 
angel  kept  guard  over  this  telescope,  seeing  he  was 
certainly  not  in  the  society  of  that  gentleman,  who 
was  by  this  time  plunged  in  such  depths,  that  it  was  a 
delicate  question  whether  he  would  leave  this  world 
sober  or  not.  Mr.  Carmichael's  faults  and  misfor- 
tunes, till  he  took  to  drinking,  were  mostly  of  a  nega- 
tive kind  ;  which  was  at  this  time  his  misfortune,  for 
had  he  committed  a  serious  crime  he  might  have 
been  hung  respectably.  But  now  he  had  made  up  his 
drunken  mind  that  on  the  whole  it  would  be  better  to 
die  than  to  live  on  forever  in  this  way,  with  nothing  to 
hope  for,  and  only  the  jail  or  a  poorhouse  staring  him 
in  the  face.  It  was  no  fault  of  his,  so  ran  his  argu- 
ment ;  and  on  the  third  day  after  Captain  Dunlow's 
arrival  in  Milboro',  Mr.  Carmichael  borrowed — if  he 
did  not  steal — a  ragged  halter  in  the  tumble-down 
barn  behind  the  house,  and  with  shambling  gait  and 
hanging  head,  shuffled  along  under  Heaven's  bright 
sunlight,  in  the  perfect  loveliness  of  a  summer's  day, 
unmoved  by  the  birds  or  sunshine,  by  flowers  or  pass- 
ing breeze,  and  unconsciously  took  the  path  that  led 
to  the  place  called  Purgatory. 

Mr.  Carmichael's  fate  ordained  that  Captain  Dun- 
low  should  be  in  his  rotunda  reconnoitering  the  neigh- 
borhood with  his  spyglass,  much  after  the  manner  of 
the  Arabian  sorcerers.  The  scraps  of  information  ob- 
tained were,  however,  of  the  prosiest  description,  and 
were  each  in  turn  shouted  down,  through  the  trapdoor 
in  the  floor,  to  the  unfortunate  Miss  Dinah  below,  who, 
suffering  from  delicate  nerves,  was  hardly  soothed 
by  having  "  Cows  ahoy  !  "  "  There  them  confounded 
turkeys  in  the  potatoes  !  "  "  Boys  in  the  cherry  trees ! " 
yelled  at  her  every  few  minutes.  Suddenly  a  death- 
like silence  prevailed,  and  Miss  Dinah,  taking  advan- 


MR.   CARMICHAEL'S   CONVERSION.  193 

tage  of  the  lull,  folded  her  thin,  respectable  hands 
and  dropped  into  a  doze. 

Mr.  Carmichael's  good  angel  had  so  arranged  mat 
ters  that  when  the  captain  had  examined  the  fields  of 
grain  swaying  in  the  afternoon  breeze,  and  had  looked 
at  every  conceivable  object  far  and  near,  he  should 
bring  his  glass  to  bear  on  that  open  space  in  the  woods 
which  Carmichael  had  reached  in  his  reckless  deter- 
mination, and  where  Dunlow  overtook  him  like  a 
nineteenth-century  magician,  and  not  too  soon!  God 
knows,  not  too  soon,  and  the  captain's  hair  stood  on 
end  in  horror. 

Down  below,  in  the  clearing,  he  could  just  see  a 
man  with  a  wild,  despairing  face  —  a  rope  —  the  high, 
strong  branch  of  a  tree. — God's  mercy  on  the  wretch  ! 
he  was  going  to  hang  himself ! 

For  a  moment  the  captain's  heart  stood  still  with 
the  horrible  sense  of  his  helplessness  to  save  the  man, 
who  would  be  dead  before  the  quickest  could  reach  the 
spot — even  if  a  straight  path  led  through  the  dense 
woods — when,  suddenly,  an  idea  flashed  upon  him. 
He  grasped  his  speaking-trumpet,  and  with  his  eye 
glued  to  the  fatal  spot,  he  shouted  with  all  the  stfength 
of  his  strong  lungs,  "  Sinner,  beware  1  The  eye  of 
the  Lord  is  upon  you  !  " 

The  man  named  Carmichael  had  already  hung  the 
rope  on  the  tree,  and  fashioned  a  good  strong  noose  ; 
perhaps,  in  a  moment  more,  there  would  have  been 
little  left  to  tell,  had  not  the  words  come  to  him 
through  the  still  air.  Rough,  hardened  man  though  he 
was,  his  strong  hands  shook,  and  his  knees  so  trem- 
bled that  he  fell  flat  to  the  ground.  A  sickening  fear 
took  possession  of  him  as  he  stared  stealthily  about 
the  lonely  spot  and  saw  no  one,  heard  nothing  more  I 
Carmichael  knew  of  Heaven.  Why,  he'd  even  been  in 
the  church  in  Milboro' — a  church  that  had  a  familiar 
trust  in  Divine  Providence,  believing  it  would  go  out 
»3 


194         MR.   CARMICHAEL'S  CONVERSION. 

of  its  way  and  upset  all  known  laws  to  save  one  sin- 
ner, however  unworthy.  So  this  man,  with  shaken 
nerves,  in  the  midst  of  terror  and  cowardice,  had  a 
vague  belief  in  a  miracle  performed,  and  so  slunk 
away  through  the  woods,  leaving  the  horribly  sugges- 
tive noose  still  hanging  on  the  tree,  to  darken  and 
disgrace  the  sunny  afternoon. 


IV. 

A  CURIOUS  age,  the  nineteenth  century,  with  its 
bad  reputation  for  skepticism,  and  at  foundation 
a  touching  desire  to  believe  everything,  in  default  of 
believing  nothing.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the  Church 
needs  a  periodical  stirring  up,  and  it  happened  that 
at  that  time  any  religious  incident  with  a  flavor  of  ex- 
citement, was  welcomed  rapturously. 

These  things  were  known  to  Mr.  Carmichael,  in  a 
vague  and  rude  fashion.  This  man,  who  would  have 
faced  death  with  immovable  stupidity,  had  at  the 
eleventh  hour  been  utterly  shaken  by  a  voice  without 
an  attendant  body,  where  there  could  have  been  no 
one,  it  seemed  on  close  examination ;  therefore,  it  must 
have  been  a  voice  direct  from  Heaven,  from  which 
Mr.  Carmichael  concluded,  in  his  by  no  means  clear 
mind,  that  he  was  reserved  for  something  better. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  world  is  glad  to  give 
unsuspected  merit  a  lift ;  and  Mr.  Carmichael,  hav- 
ing entered  on  his  new  lease  of  life,  washed  and 
shaved — processes  which  he  needed  extremely — and 
after  having  had  a  private  interview  with  the  pastor 
of  the  Milboro'  church,  felt  certain  that  Heaven  had 
interposed  in  his  behalf,  especially  after  his  story 
leaked  out  so  much  to  his  advantage  that  he  was 
called  upon  to  repeat  it  at  a  revival-meeting  in  the 
market-town.    This  he  did  with  such  unbounded  sue- 


MR.   CARMICHAEL'S   CONVERSION.         195 

cess  that  he  went  from  one  place  to  another  in  the 
character  of  a  hardened  sinner  saved  from  the  vilest 
and  lowest  fate  by  the  grace  of  God,  till  he  grew  fat 
and  oily  with  too  much  temporal  prosperity,  and  in 
the  course  of  time  developed  an  unconscious  but  ar- 
tistic talent  for  adding  trifling  touches  to  the  original 
story,  at  which  Mr.  Carmichael  of  that  summer's  day 
at  Purgatory,  would  have  stared  in  drunken  surprise. 


CAPTAIN  DUNLOW  was  a  scoffer.  So  Miss 
Dinah  said,  and  it  was  the  object  of  her  life  to 
enlighten  his  soul  and  to  take  him  to  church ;  both 
of  which  projects  were  eminently  unsuccessful.  The 
captain  hated  regular  church-going,  and  he  had,  too, 
religious  opinions  of  his  own,  which,  if  not  quite  after 
Miss  Dinah's  respectable  pattern,  probably  answered 
quite  as  well  in  the  eyes  of  an  all-wise  Creator. 

Milboro'  was  the  proud  possessor  of  a  town-hall 
of  the  barest  and  most  angular  description,  warranted 
to  contain  no  object  which  could  divert  the  most 
thoughtless  mind  from  religious  contemplation.  The 
early  autumn  had  come,  and  that  mansion  of  grace 
was  hired  by  the  piously  disposed  for  a  religious  revi- 
val. The  cold  winds  were  beginning  to  blow  rather 
rudely,  so  it  seemed  best  to  hold  the  meetings  here, 
instead  of  on  the  camp-ground. 

Miss  Dunlow  was  in  a  ferment  of  excitement  all 
the  time,  and  the  captain  was  in  a  corresponding 
state  of  fury.  "  I'd  like  to  know  where  your  duty  be- 
gins," he  shouted  in  a  passion.  "  At  home,  it  seems 
to  me.  D'ye  know,  I  haven't  had  a  hot  mouthful  to 
eat  since  that  confounded  show  started.  Charity  and 
duty  begin  at  home;  d'ye  hear  me,  ma'am  ?  "  and  the 
captain  rushed  off,  with  passion  at  white  heat. 


196         MR.   CARMICHAEL'S   CONVERSION. 

Miss  Dinah  shut  her  eyes  and  let  the  bottled  wrath 
pour  over  her  head  without  a  murmur. 

Matters  had  b)'  this  time  come  to  such  a  pass  that 
no  revival  was  anything  without  Mr.  Carmichael  and 
his  story. 

"  Carmichael  ?  Carmichael  ?  "  the  captain  asked 
gruffly  one  day.     "  Carmichael  ?     Who's  he  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  Miss  Dinah  said  with  a  sigh  and  a  pitying 
look  at  her  brother — "  oh,  he's  one  of  the  saved.  He 
was  a  dreadful  drunkard  and  a  sinner,  but  now  he's 
full  of  grace." 

"  A  precious  shining  light !  "  the  captain  interrupt- 
ed in  great  disgust :  "  it  must  do  folks  a  darned  sight 
of  good  to  hear  him  !  " 

"Jonathan,"  his  sister  said,  as  pleadingly  as  possi- 
ble for  her  undemonstrative  nature — "Jonathan,  come 
with  me  this  afternoon.  It'll  do  you  good — indeed  it 
will.  Mr.  Carmichael  speaks  for  the  first  time.  They 
say  "  —  lowering  her  voice  mysteriously  —  "  they  say 
he's  had  awful  experiences." 

Captain  Dunlow,  moved  by  an  unexpected  curi- 
osity, not  only  consented  to  go,  but  hitched  the  horse 
to  the  "  shay,"  and  he  and  Miss  Dinah  were  off  to  the 
town-hall  in  good  time. 

There  was  a  peculiar  delicate  flavor  of  excitement 
about  Mr.  Carmichael's  appearance,  as  he  was  a  na- 
tive of  the  town,  and  people  had  some  curiosity  to 
see  the  saint  who  had  been  developed  from  such  a 
vagabond.  So  Milboro'  and  all  the  surrounding 
towns  turned  out  in  full  force  to  do  him  honor,  and 
the  open  square  before  the  town-hall  was  filled  with 
any  and  every  kind  of  vehicle  which  would  hold  to- 
gether enough  for  the  occupants  to  reach  their  des- 
tination. An  enthusiastic  multitude  had  preceded 
the  captain  and  Miss  Dunlow,  so  they  could  barely 
squeeze  into  a  back  settee  between  a  door  and  a  win- 
dow, through  which  blew  a  brisk  breeze  that  began 


MR.   CARMICHAEL'S   CONVERSION.         197 

to  tell  on  the  captain's  temper.  However,  there  was 
something  in  the  air,  an  excited  earnestness,  which 
made  the  unhappy  scoffer  even  forget  himself. 

The  hymns  were  sung  with  tremendous  fervor,  and 
the  women's  voices  rang  out  shrill  and  high  with  ex- 
citement. The  prayers,  too,  were  fervently  listened 
to,  and  wet  eyes,  and  bony,  hard-worked  hands  wrung 
in  repentance,  spoke  more  in  honor  of  trusting  hearts 
than  of  the  preacher's  eloquence. 

Even  the  captain  became  excited,  and  ran  his  stubby 
hand  through  his  gray  hair  till  it  stood  on  end,  and 
then  took  out  his  scarlet  handkerchief  and  blew  his 
nose,  till  the  people  about  turned  round  in  disgust, 
not  knowing  the  captain's  way  of  showing  his  emo- 
tions. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  commotion ;  the  people  stood 
up  and  stretched  their  necks,  till  the  captain,  who  was 
a  short  man,  and  wedged  into  a  corner  as  well,  turned 
this  way  and  that  in  balked  curiosity,  vainly  dodging 
his  head  in  between  his  neighbors. 

*'  Confound  it !  "  cried  the  captain,  and  leaped  on 
the  settee.  Looking  over  the  heads  of  the  peo'ple  to- 
wards the  platform,  he  gave  a  gasp  and  a  start  as  he 
saw  a  man  standing  there  with  a  half-conquered,  hang- 
dog air,  a  defiant  look  in  his  eyes  and  a  snarl  and  a 
whine  in  his  voice — in  other  words,  Mr.  Carmichael 
in  his  well-known  character  of  a  rescued  wretch. 

"  Bless  my  soul  !  who's  he  ? "  the  captain  thought, 
but  had  no  time  to  recollect,  for  Miss  Dinah,  red  with 
shame  and  horror,  pulled  at  his  coat-tails. 

"  Down  !  down  there  !  "  shouted  an  outraged  wor- 
shiper ;  and  so  the  captain  descended,  and  Mr.  Car- 
michael began. 

He  had  no  intention  of  giving  himself  a  good  char- 
acter ;  he  reveled  in  every  vile  epithet  he  could  use 
against  himself,  and  groveled  in  such  dire  abase- 
ment that  his  admiring  hearers  acknowledged  that 


igS         MR.   CARMICHAEL'S   CONVERSION, 

Heaven  had  stooped  a  long  way  to  pick  him  out  of 
the  mire ;  while  a  certain  choleric  old  gentleman  in  a 
corner,  with  a  distracted  mind  and  two  clenched  fists, 
wished  he'd  had  Mr.  Carmichael  alone  on  board  the 
Lovely  Sal  with  a  rope's  end  handy,  when  that  re- 
formed sinner  suddenly  threw  an  unexpected  light 
upon  himself. 

"  Heaven,"  said  Mr.  Carmichael,  and  raised  his 
eyes  to  the  ceiling — "  Heaven  saved  this  poor  wretch 
for  its  own  purposes.  A  miracle  was  performed  :  there 
came  a  voice  from  the  clouds  saying, '  Sinner — '  " 

The  choleric  old  gentleman  in  a  corner  gasped  for 
breath,  and  turned  fatally  red.  The  choleric  old  gen- 
tleman wanted  to  get  up,  but  was  held  down  by  the 
hands  of  a  middle-aged  gentlewoman. 

"'Sinner,'"  continued  Mr.  Carmichael  —  "'sin- 
ner, beware  !     The  eye  of  the  Lord  is  upon  you  ! '  " 

"  You  lie  !  " 

It  rang  through  the  place,  and  Mr.  Carmichael 
stopped  open-mouthed  and  glared  down  on  the  red- 
faced  old  gentleman  in  the  corner,  who  had  leaped 
upon  the  settee  and  was  waving  a  scarlet  bandanna 
handkerchief  like  a  flag  of  defiance. 

"You  lie,  you — you  landlubber!  'Twa'n't  a  voice 
from  the  clouds.  'Twas  I  with  my  speaking-trumpet  1 
Don't  you  go  round  telling  such  darned  lies  !  " 

Mr.  Carmichael  came  to  himself  ;  he  tore  off  his 
coat  and  leaped  down  from  the  platform,  where  he 
was,  however,  grasped  by  several  stalwart  worshipers, 
who  held  him  struggling  and  frantic  and  using  lan- 
guage unbecoming  an  object  of  grace. 

"  Put  him  out !  out  with  him  !  "  the  crowd  yelled 
at  the  captain  j  and  so  the  good  man  was  hustled 
out,  and  Miss  Dinah,  without  a  moment's  reflection, 
fainted  right  under  the  settee. 

Three  hundred  years  ago  such  boldness  might  have 
cost  the  captain  his  life  :  the  angry  religious  feeling 


MR.   CARMICHAEL'S   CONVERSION.         IQQ 

of  the  nineteenth  century  cost  him  his  hat,  at  which 
sacrifice  the  captain  was  disgusted. 

"  Blamed  if  I  do  a  good  turn  for  another  feller  !  " 
he  thought  as  he  climbed  into  his  "shay."  "Let  'em 
go  hang  and  welcome. — Go  'long ! "  he  said  to  the 
horse,  and  so  disappeared  up  the  hill. 

The  fine  effect  of  Mr.  Carmichael's  spiritual  expe- 
riences was,  however,  spoiled  by  the  interruption,  and 
it  was  amazing  to  see  how  popular  interest  in  him 
languished  at  once.  That  he  had  without  doubt  been 
indirectly  saved  by  Divine  Providence  was  of  no 
earthly  concern  to  Milboro',  in  its  keen  disappoint- 
ment that  he  had  not  been  saved  directly.  Milboro' 
pined  for  a  direct  miracle. 

So  there  was  nothing  left  for  Mr.  Carmichael  to  do 
but  to  disappear,  which  he  did  very  soon,  leaving  be- 
hind him  nothing  but  a  vague  rumor  sometimes  re- 
ferred to  as  "  Carmichael's  Conversion." 


JACINTH. 
I. 

TWILIGHT  began  to  dim  the  corners  of  the  large, 
low-studded  room,  and  to  obliterate  the  family 
portraits  on  the  wainscoted  walls.  It  softened  the 
worn  face  of  Miss  Penelope  Macilvaine  as  she  sat 
before  the  open  fire,  occasionally  glancing  over  her 
shoulder  towards  the  nearest  window,  and  sighing. 
At  the  two  farther  windows  sat  her  sisters,  Miss  Sarah 
and  Miss  Judith,  as  they  had  done  for  thirty  years. 
They  also  looked  out  of  their  respective  windows 
once  in  a  while,  but  they  did  not  sigh,  that  was  Miss 
Penelope's  privilege. 

They  were  three  old  women,  for  even  Miss  Penel- 
ope, and  she  was  the  youngest,  would  never  again 
see  fifty,  but  they  were  all  secretly  stirred  at  sight  of 
young  Malcolm  Dunston  walking  by  Jacinth's  side 
at  the  foot  of  the  garden,  where  the  hawthorn  hedge 
divided  the  soft  green  lawn  from  the  high  road. 

"  So  to-morrow  you  leave  Rothmere  and  Scotland, 
Miss  Jacinth,"  he  was  saying.  "  You  will  return  to 
America  and  forget  us !  "  He  could  not  look  into 
her  face  and  command  his  heart,  and  so  he  watched 
the  river  over  the  way  as  it  rippled  and  tumbled  under 
the  rustic  bridge. 

For  a  moment  Jacinth's  lips  quivered,  but  then  she 
lifted  her  eyes,  and  there  was  a  quiet  strength  in  their 
tender  depths  as  they  met  his,  that  troubled  him,  and 
his  heart  rebelled  against  his  practical  Scotch  mind 
and  his  self-made  barriers. 
(200) 


JACINTH.  20 1 

"  I  have  had  a  long  holiday,  and  if  I  do  not  go  now 
I  shall  forget  how  to  work,  for  my  aunts  are  so  good 
to  me,"  she  said,  and  looked  lovingly  at  the  old  brick 
house,  unconscious  of  being  watched  by  eager  eyes. 

"  I  hope,"  said  Miss  Sarah,  "  that  it  is  settled ; 
then  the  dear  child  can  stay  with  us  until  they  are 
married." 

"  I  can't  understand  you,  Sarah  ;  he  is  poorer  than 
Job  j  he's  only  a  clerk  in  the  bank,  and  he  hasn't  any 
prospects." 

"  He  is  Mr.  Dunston's  son,  Judith." 

"A  nice,  shiftless  lot  that,  though  I  shouldn't  say 
it  of  the  minister." 

"  Oh,  hush,  please,"  Miss  Penelope  interrupted ; 
"they  are  coming  up  the  walk!  Fetch  the  lamp, 
Sarah,  do— oh,  I'm  all  of  a  tremble," 

The  door  was  quietly  opened  just  as  Miss  Sarah 
came  in  at  another  with  the  lamp.  She  placed  it 
among  the  books  on  the  table,  and  then,  as  if  with 
one  accord,  all  three  stared  expectantly  at  Jacinth. 

"  Where  is  Malcolm  ? "  Miss  Sarah  broke  'the  si- 
lence. 

"  He  bade  me  good-by  and  went  back  to  the  par- 
sonage across  the  pasture." 

"  Is  that  all,  Jacinth  ?  " 

"  All,  Aunt  Sarah,"  she  answered,  smiling,  and 
drew  a  chair  to  the  table,  while  they  still  watched  her 
as  if  spellbound. 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,"  Aunt  Judith  cried  and  broke 
the  spell. 

Aunt  Sarah  shook  her  head,  but  she  did  not  trust 
herself  to  speak,  and  after  a  moment  of  stupor,  they 
both  left  the  room. 

No  sooner  were  they  gone  than  Jacinth's  face  slip>- 
ped  into  the  palms  of  her  hands  and  lay  hidden,  until, 
at  a  soft  touch  on  her  shoulder,  she  looked  up  with 
hopeless  eyes. 


202  JACINTH. 

"You,  Aunt  Penelope  ? " 

Between  the  two  had  stood  the  wall  of  Aunt  Penel- 
ope's grief,  a  luckless  romance  upon  which  she  had 
built  the  sad  structure  of  her  existence,  by  right  of 
which  she  enjoyed  unstinted  melancholy,  which  her 
sisters  bore  with  the  patience  of  long  habit,  but  which, 
in  the  uncharitableness  of  youth,  Jacinth  called  self- 
ishness. 

"  My  dear,"  Aunt  Penelope  said,  and  a  faint  flush 
crept  to  the  border  of  her  lace  cap,  "  my  dear,  out  of 
my  sorrows  and  mistakes  I  speak  to  you.  Thirty 
years  ago  the  man  who  once  said  he  loved  me,  told 
me  that  the  old  feeling  had  changed.  There  was 
nothing  to  do  but  to  bear  it,  but,  God  forgive  me, 
how  ill  I  bore  it,  how  selfish  I  was.  Child,  be  better 
and  stronger  than  I,  and  you  will  yet  be  happy.  You 
are  young,  dear,  and  prettier  than  ever  I  was,  and  you 
will  forget." 

"  Aunt  Penelope,"  Jacinth  cried,  "  he  never  once 
told  me  that  he  " — she  paused  and  hid  her  face  on  the 
old  woman's  breast. 

"  I  know,  child,  I  know,  it  is  not  only  words  that 
speak." 

"  It  was  a  mistake,  that  is  all,"  Jacinth  murmured, 
trying  to  smile ;  then,  with  a  cry  that  broke  down 
the  barriers  of  her  good  resolutions,  she  threw  herself 
forward  on  the  table  and  buried  her  face  in  her  out- 
stretched arms. 

"  Have  patience  with  me,  Aunt  Penelope." 

"  My  dear,  it  is  not  for  me  to  tell  you  to  do  at  once 
what  I  could  not  do  in  thirty  years,"  Aunt  Penelope 
said  humbly,  when  the  door  opened,  and  Miss  Judith 
appeared.  For  a  moment  she  stared  in  consternation 
at  Jacinth,  and  then  she  sank  into  the  nearest  chair 
with  an  eloquent  bounce. 

With  a  quick  movement  Jacinth  was  by  her  side, 
and  threw  her  arras  about  the  old  lady. 


JACINTH.  203 

"  I  love  you  so  dearly,  Aunt  Judith,  forgive  me  for 
my  foolishness,  for  to-morrow  I  shall  be  far  away,  and 
who  knows  when  we  shall  see  each  other  again  ?  " 

"  See  each  other  again ! "  an  indignant  voice  re- 
peated, and  there  stood  Aunt  Sarah,  with  the  tea-tray. 
"Don't  talk  nonsense.  You  are  coming  back  next 
year,  sure !  Now  come  and  have  tea  by  the  fire." 
So  they  sat  about  the  blazing  logs  on  the  hearth,  with 
Jacinth  in  their  midst,  resting  her  bright  head  on 
Aunt  Penelope's  lap,  while  Aunt  Sarah  held  her  hand 
and  Aunt  Judith  patted  her  head  softly ;  and  there 
was  peace  in  the  still  room  and  even  in  poor  Jacinth's 
heart,  while,  a  mile  away,  in  the  Rothmere  parsonage, 
Malcolm  Dunston  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  floor 
of  his  shabby  room.  "  I  could  curse  my  destiny  if  I 
did  not  mean  to  conquer  it,"  he  cried,  stopping  short 
in  his  walk. 

"Yet  if  I  had  said  to-night,  'Jacinth,  be  my  wife, 
wait  and  be  patient  until  I  have  earned  enough  to 
support  you  in  comfort,'  why  then  she  would  still  have 
had  to  go  away,  and  there  would  have  been  th(*  misery 
of  waiting,  for  her  as  well  as  for  me.  Now  I  alone 
have  the  sorrow  of  parting,  the  fear  for  the  future,  and 
the  hope,"  something  seemed  to  whisper.  "  Yet  she 
shall  be  my  wife,  some  day  with  God's  help !  When 
I  can  make  her  happy  and  when  poverty  shall  not 
drag  her  down  as  it  has  my  mother.  I  can  work,  and, 
by  Heaven  I  will,"  and  he  stretched  out  his  strong 
arms  like  a  young  giant  trying  his  strength. 

"  Yet  suppose,"  he  thought  of  a  sudden,  "  she  sees 
in  the  meantime  some  one  she  can  love,  free  from  any 
promise  to  me  ?  "  He  stood  still  and  pondered. 
"  Then  I  shall  have  kept  the  sorrow  out  of  her  life 
with  the  hope." 

So  Malcolm  Dunston  took  Fate  into  his  own  hands. 


204  JACINTR 


II. 

IN  a  drear}',  shabby  New  York  street,  Jacinth  Mac- 
ilvaine  looked  out  of  an  attic  window  and  watched 
the  forest  of  chimneys  that  stood  out  against  the  steel 
blue  of  the  spring  sky,  and  for  once  she  was  idle. 

It  was  a  shabby,  whitewashed  attic,  with  a  dim 
window,  a  bare  floor,  and  the  cheapest  of  furniture. 
In  a  corner  hung  a  couple  of  gowns,  elaborately  dec- 
orated and  boldly  proclaiming  themselves  sham. 

"Ten  years  ago,  on  just  such  a  day,  I  sailed  for 
Scotland,"  Jacinth  thought,  as  the  afternoon  crept 
away,  "  and  now  I  am  thirty  instead  of  twenty,  and 
Eve  is  as  old  as  I  was  then." 

"After  all,  it  is  good  that  I  have  so  little  time 
to  think,"  she  murmured,  when  an  unceremonious 
hand  rattled  the  broken  door-knob,  and  then  the  rat- 
tler shot  in  with  a  celerity  which  astonished  even 
her  airy  self.  A  wonderfully  pretty  young  person,  in 
a  dress  that  proclaimed  itself  a  near  relative  to  those 
on  the  wall. 

"  From  Aunt  Sally,"  she  remarked,  tossing  a  let- 
ter to  Jacinth,  pirouetted  about  once  or  twice  in  the 
very  wantonness  of  spirits,  slammed  the  shaky  door, 
and  was  gone. 

Yes,  it  was  from  Rothmere.  They  had  not  once 
forgotten  her  during  these  ten  long  years.  "  Come 
to  us,  Jacinth,  child,"  Aunt  Sarah  wrote.  The  same 
old  story,  repeated  every  year  with  loving  persistency. 
But  every  year  a  new  baby  or  an  illness,  and  an  in- 
valid, fretful  mother,  had  tied  her  down  to  duty,  and 
so  she  refused,  with  pretended  cheerfulness. 

'*  But  Eve  is  old  enough  now  to  take  your  place," 
Aunt  Sarah  wrote,  "  and  we  long  for  the  sight  of  you. 
Besides,  we  are  old  women  and  who  knows  when — " 


JACINTH.  205 

for  a  moment  Jacinth's  eyes  filled  with  unaccustomed 
tears.  "  One  has  a  duty  to  perform  even  to  one's 
self,"  she  read,  "  and  it  is  the  only  one  you  have 
neglected.  We  send  you  a  check,  so  that  you  can- 
not have  any  excuse  for  not  coming." 

The  letter  fell  in  her  lap,  and  her  heart  leaped  with 
joy  at  the  thought  of  seeing  them  all  again,  and  per- 
haps— why  not  i* — seeing  him  once  more,  and  for  a 
moment  she  grew  faint  and  dizzy  with  longing.  Then 
came  the  awakening. 

Deliberately  she  placed  before  herself  her  faded 
image,  with  the  touch  of  care  on  her  forehead ;  the 
prim  lines  of  her  gray  gown,  the  dawn  of  old  maid- 
hood,  to  which  she  had  surrendered  without  a  struggle. 

"  If  I  should  see  him  again  and  love  him,  for  I  am 
so  weak,  so  weak !  Oh,  Jacinth,  what  is  there  in  you 
that  he  would  care  for  ?  Old,  even  for  your  age,  and 
careworn,  and  faded.  Better,  you  poor  thing,  the 
quiet  of  your  daily  life,  looking  forward  to  no  hope, 
than  such  unbearable  pain." 

For  a  moment  she  sat  quite  still,  when  suddenly 
she  saw  one  of  her  sister's  gloves  lying  on  the  floor. 
Why  not  Eve  instead  of  herself  ?  Was  she  not  as 
much  Aunt  Sarah's  niece  ?  To  transplant  her  into 
the  purity  and  peace  of  Rothmere  would  be  worth 
any  sacrifice. 

"  She  is  so  pretty,"  Jacinth  thought  fondly,  just  as 
the  door  flew  open  and  Eve  skipped  in. 

"  There  it  is  ! "  she  cried,  and  picked  up  the  lost 
glove,  and  prepared  to  skip  out  once  more. 

"  Eve,  wait  a  moment ;  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

"  I  can't  wait,  for  I'm  to  take  a  walk  in  the  ceme- 
tery." 

Eve's  admirers  being  as  a  rule  rich  in  hope,  but 
poor  in  purse,  tokens  of  their  devotion  were  mostly 
confined  to  these  lugubrious  strolls. 

"  My  dear,"  Jacinth  said,  putting  her  arm  about 


206  JACINTH. 

her  sister,  "  would  you  like  to  go  to  Scotland  on  a 
visit  ? " 

"  Do  they  really  want  me,  old  girl  ?  "  Eve  cried  in 
a  glow  of  delight.  Then  Jacinth  explained  that  she 
hardly  cared  to  go  (God  forgive  her),  and  Eve  should 
go  in  her  stead,  if  father  and  mother  were  willing. 

"  Oh,  they'll  let  me  go,"  and  Eve,  in  rapture,  scam- 
pered towards  the  door.  But  as  she  reached  it  she 
ran  back  and  flung  her  arms  about  Jacinth,  and  gave 
her  an  affectionate  dab  of  a  kiss  nowhere  in  partic- 
ular, and  pronounced  these  words  :  "  My  dear,  it's 
no  use  being  too  good  in  this  world.  It's  nice  for 
others,  but  it's  bad  for  yourself.  Folks  take  it  for 
granted  after  awhile,  and  don't  even  thank  you." 
Then,  with  a  parting  hug,  she  added  :  "  You're  a 
dear  old  thing,  and  of  course  I'll  go."  At  the  door 
she  looked  back.  "  Any  men  in  Rothmere  ?  Good 
gracious,  I  forgot !  They  must  have  been  babies  in 
your  time.  Still,  I  do  hope  there  are  one  or  two — I 
should  die  of  nothing  but  old  women." 

So  Eve  disappeared,  and  Jacinth,  looking  out  into 
the  shabby  street  and  seeing  nothing,  felt  that  she, 
also,  had  taken  Fate  into  her  own  hands. 


III. 

TIME,  that  ruthless  joker,  had,  in  spite  of  his  bad 
character,  dealt  tenderly  during  the  past  ten  years 
with  the  old  ladies  of  Rothmere.  To  be  sure,  he  had 
turned  Aunt  Sarah's  hair  quite  white,  and  given  Miss 
Judith  a  twinge  of  rheumatism,  but  he  had  left  Aunt 
Penelope  her  gentle  grief,  and  a  fondness  for  soft  gray 
gowns  and  dainty  lace  caps. 

The  long,  quaint  house  was  still  the  same,  the  only 
change  being  that  the  luxurious  ivy  had  so  entangled 
the  sprightly,  legs  of  the  weather-cock,  that  this  unre- 


JACINTH.  207 

liable  bird  had  settled  himself  permanently  due  south. 
About  the  house  was  a  subdued  air  of  welcome  and 
festivity,  and  the  opening  of  the  distant  kitchen  door 
sent  delicious  whiffs  through  the  old-fashioned  hall. 

The  Misses  Macilvaine  sat  in  their  usual  places, 
trying  to  work,  but  they  gave  it  up  and  looked  ex- 
pectantly out  of  the  windows.     Miss  Penelope  spoke. 

"  I  wonder  if  she  is  much  changed  ?  She  has  had 
a  hard  life,  and  at  thirty — " 

"  I  can't  understand,"  Miss  Judith  interrupted  ir- 
ritably, "  why  she  did  not  write  to  say  that  she  was 
coming  by  the  next  steamer,  as  Sarah  suggested.  It 
was  thoughtless !     She  may  not  be  coming  at  all." 

"  I  am  sure  she  will  come,"  Miss  Sarah  spoke  with 
decision.     "  I  said  so  to  Malcolm  last  night." 

"  Mark  my  words,  Sarah,  you're  making  a  terrible 
mistake.  If  ten  years  ago  Malcolm  made  a  mistake, 
and  made  Jacinth  unhappy,  don't  you  help  him  to  do 
it  again.  Do  you  believe  that  Malcolm  Dunston, 
good  looking  and  rich,  with  half  the  girls  of  the  coun- 
ty running  after  him — do  you  believe  he  will'fall  in 
love  again  with  the  poor  child,  after  all  these  years  ? 
Do  you  believe  he  will  fall  in  love  with  her  again, 
when,  ten  years  ago,  when  she  was  young  and  pretty, 
he  could  let  her  go  without  a  word  or  a  promise  ?  Is 
it  natural,  Sarah  ?  " 

"  No,  it  isn't  natural,  Judith,"  she  replied,  sighing. 
"  But  he  loved  her  once,  and  I  believe  in  his  faithful 
heart,  for  we  know  why  he  did  not  speak." 

"  Nonsense  !  Believe  in  his  fiddlestick.  What  right 
have  you  ?  When  he  should  have  spoken,  he  was  as 
dumb  as  an  oyster.  Lord  !  he's  only  for  money- 
making — he's  always  calculating.  He's  been  at  it  now 
for  ten  years  without  stopping.     I  tell  you,  Sarah — " 

Down  the  road  at  that  moment  came  the  rattle  of 
wheels,  and  Miss  Sarah  sprang  to  her  feet.  "  God 
bless  her,  it's  Jacinth,"  she  said,  and  the  next  instant 


208  JACINTH. 

she  was  down  the  garden  path,  her  spectacles  bobbing 
up  and  down  on  her  nose. 

The  ancient  cab  which  served  Rothmere  drew  up 
at  the  gate,  and  the  first  sound  that  greeted  Miss 
Sarah's  horrified  ears  was  a  choice  selection  of  "  swear 
words,"  as  the  cabby  wrestled  with  a  gigantic  trunk 
atop.  Then,  to  cap  Miss  Sarah's  surprise,  there 
stepped  out  of  the  vehicle  a  youth  with  an  eyeglass, 
and  a  young  person  in  an  astonishing  toilette,  who 
threw  her  arms  about  the  struggling  Miss  Sarah,  and 
imprinted  a  kiss  upon  the  end  of  that  good  woman's 
nose. 

"  Heaven  preserve  us  !  who  are  you  ?  "  she  gasped, 
freeing  herself. 

"  Good  gracious  me  !  I  quite  forgot.  I'm  Eve, 
aunt.  You  see  pa  forgot  to  post  Jacinth's  letter,  and 
so  I  brought  it  myself." 

"  And  who  is  he  ?  "  and  Miss  Sarah  turned  severely 
on  the  young  man. 

"  O  we  met  on  the  train,  aunt.  He's  been  real 
good  to  me.     I  told  him  I  was  a  stranger." 

For  a  moment  Aunt  Sarah  was  staggered,  then  she 
collected  all  her  strength,  and  in  a  moment  the  young 
man  with  the  eyeglass,  the  rickety  cab  and  the  swear- 
ing cabby  had  disappeared  as  chaff  before  the  wind, 
and  Eve,  calmly  seated  on  her  trunk,  listened  with  a 
faint  smile  to  the  angry  old  lady. 

"  A  heart  of  gold,  loving  and  generous — which 
will  be  all  the  better  for  your  love  and  gentle  ways." 
So  Jacinth  wrote,  and  the  three  discussed  it  with 
many  a  sigh,  as  they  sat  about  the  fire,  while  Eve  was 
upstairs,  emptying  the  amazing  trunk. 

The  sitting-room  was  deserted  when  she  opened 
the  door  with  a  propitiatory  smile  on  her  pretty  face. 
The  smile  died  away,  and  for  the  first  time,  perhaps, 
in  her  life,  the  quick  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes. 

With  a  stamp  of  her  foot,  she  dragged  Aunt  Sarah's 


JACINTH.  209 

sacred  chair  to  the  fire  and  threw  herself  with  much 
spite  into  its  wicker  embrace. 

"  Why  did  I  come  ?  "  she  cried.  "  Of  course  they 
hate  me,  for  they've  hardly  been  civil.  As  for  Aunt 
Sally,  the  idea  of  her  flying  like  an  old  cat  at  that  nice 
young  man,  who  was  so  very  polite."  This  sent  her 
light  thoughts  off  at  a  tangent,  and  she  only  looked 
up  at  the  sound  of  a  firm  tread,  and  the  opening  of 
the  door. 

In  an  instant  life  in  Rothmere  exhibited  one  point 
of  interest  at  least ;  for  a  grave,  handsome  man,  hold- 
ing in  one  hand  his  hat  ajid  riding-whip,  stood  in  the 
door-way. 

"  I  came  to  see  Miss  Macilvaine,"  he  said,  coming 
forward,  but  the  eager  look  in  his  eyes  vanished  at 
sight  of  Eve's  pretty  face.  "  She  was  expected  to  ar- 
rive to-day  from  America." 

He  had  a  low,  steady  voice,  and  he  seemed  to  take 
the  girl's  measure,  body  and  soul,  at  one  quiet  glance. 

That  young  person  bowed  graciously. 

"  I  am  Miss  Macilvaine,  and  I'm  sure  I  sihall  be 
delighted  to  know  to  whom  I  have  the  pleasure — " 

"  Surely  there  must  be  some  mistake,"  he  inter- 
rupted. "  Pardon  me,  I  must  find  Miss  Sarah."  And 
quite  unmoved  by  the  younger  Miss  Macilvaine's  toi- 
lette, her  big  eyes,  and  her  small  feet,  he  left  the 
room. 

"  Well,  I  never !  "  she  exclaimed,  then  with  a  bound 
she  was  at  the  window. 

There  they  were,  sure  enough,  walking  up  and 
down  the  garden  path.  He,  with  grave,  down-bent 
face,  listening  to  Aunt  Sarah's  eloquence.  For  she 
was  eloquent,  anxious,  exasperated,  and  her  cap- 
strings  shook  with  indignation,  as  she  glanced  towards 
the  house.  So  Aunt  Penelope,  coming  in,  found  Eve 
watching  them, 

"  O,  Aunt  Penelope,  who  is  he  ?  " 
14 


2IO  JACINTH. 

Miss  Penelope  sank  into  her  usual  place  and 
watched  her  niece  with  a  hard  line  about  her  mouth, 
for  there  was  something  in  the  pretty  face  and  vola- 
tile temperament,  that  turned  Miss  Penelope's  com- 
fortable sadness  to  gall. 

"  That  is  Malcolm  Dunston," — "  The  richest  man 
in  Rothmere,"  Miss  Judith  added.  She  had  just 
come  in. 

"  You  don't  say  so  !    Why,  then  he'd  do  to  marry  !  " 

There  was  a  moment  of  stupor,  during  which  Aunt 
Penelope  smiled  with  scorn. 

"  Marry  whom  ?  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  " 
and  in  came  Miss  Sarah. 

"  Eve  means  to  marry  Malcolm  Dunston,"  Miss 
Penelope  exclaimed,  with  a  sharp  laugh. 

Aunt  Sarah  pulled  her  spectacles  down  to  get  a 
better  look  at  the  girl,  and,  with  a  sinking  heart,  she 
silently  acknowledged  her  loveliness.  • 

"  Marry  him  !  "  she  ^cried  with  indignation.  "  He 
isn't  the  man  for  every  chit !  Better  girls  than  you 
have  tried." 

"  Do  you  really  think  it's  so  hard  to  fall  in  love  with 
me  ?  There,  you  don't  know.  Why,  I've  had  no  end 
of  offers !  Mostly  bad  ones,"  she  acknowledged, 
"but  this  is  a  chance,"  and  she  rose  and  faced  her 
astonished  relatives.  "  So,  first  he  shall  fall  in  love 
with  me  and  then,"  here  she  looked  back  at  them 
with  undutiful  defiance,  "and  then  he  shall  marry 
me!" 

Having,  so  to  speak,  flung  down  the  gauntlet,  Eve 
scampered  upstairs  and  left  the  three  old  women 
staring  at  each  other  in  speechless  consternation. 

"  Poor  Jacinth  !  "  Miss  Penelope  broke  the  silencC: 

*'  For  Jacinth's  sake,"  Aunt  Sarah  said,  "  I  think 
we'd  better  send  her  home  as  soon  as  possible.  After 
all,  he  is  only  a  man  "  (Miss  Sarah  had  a  very  poor 
opinion  of  men),  "  and  there  is  no  knowing.     If  we 


JACINTH.  211 

can  only  keep  Malcolm  away,"  she  sighed,  "  and  as 
he  is  the  only  man  who  ever  does  come  here,  I  think 
she  will  be  ready  to  go." 


IV. 

THE  monotonous  days  passed,  and  poor  Eve  was 
much  like  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  with  the  differ- 
ence that  any  Lancelot  would  have  been  welcome. 
It  was  the  necessity  of  her  nature  to  make  an  im- 
pression on  some  one,  and  at  last  she  was  reduced 
to  flirting  with  the  ancient  gardener.  As  he  was 
wholly  deaf  and  half  blind,  she  found,  one  day, 
nothing  left  for  her  to  do  but  to  lean  over  the  hedge 
and  stare  up  and  down  the  road.  Then,  in  default 
of  other  amusement,  she  opened  the  gate  and  strolled 
down  the  road  into  unknown  regions,  sheltered  from 
the  sun  by  a  huge  Japanese  parasol  of  flamboyant 
colors. 

Rothmere  was  still  barbarous  and,  while  E«ve  was 
only  conscious  that  she  was  making  a  very  pretty 
picture,  she  was  roused  from  a  contemplation  of  the 
queer  old  houses  of  Rothmere,  buried  in  honeysuckles 
and  roses,  by  a  most  diabolical  "  whoop  !  "  and  the 
next  minute  she  was  surrounded  by  a  lot  of  dirty 
ragamuffins  who  greeted  her  umbrella  with  derision. 

Miss  Macilvaine  was  no  coward.  "Go  away,  you 
little  wretches  ! "  she  cried,  with  a  stamp  of  her  foot, 
but  as  that  effected  only  another  "  whoop,"  Eve,  hold- 
ing her  umbrella  as  a  shield,  made  a  regular  onslaught, 
when,  of  a  sudden,  it  was  torn  from  her  grasp,  and  the 
next  instant  it  was  borne  triumphantly  down  the  street. 

She  looked  helplessly  about. 

"  Why,  Miss  Macilvaine,  what  has  happened  ?  " 

It  was  Malcolm,  who  had  come  upon  her  from  a 


212  JACINTH. 

side  path,  and  she  had  not  heard  the  sound  of  his 
horse's  hoofs. 

He  swung  himself  down  from  the  saddle  while  she 
explained ;  and  throwing  the  mare's  bridle  over  his 
arm,  walked  beside  her  and  listened  with  rather 
absent-minded  amusement  to  Miss  Macilvaine's  chat- 
ter. 

Aunt  Sarah,  trimming  the  roses  about  the  porch, 
saw  them  coming,  and  stood  rooted  to  the  spot. 

"  Now  there's  a  man  about,  she'll  never  go,"  she 
groaned,  gifted  as  if  with  the  power  of  prophesy. 
But  in  a  few  weeks  it  was  not  of  a  poor  solitary  man 
that  the  old  women  complained,  but  of  what  they  were 
pleased  to  call  "  hordes  of  men." 

One  afternoon  Miss  Sarah,  opening  the  sitting- 
room  door,  turned  into  stone  upon  the  spot.  In  the 
Misses  Macilvaine's  sacred  chairs  reposed  three  young 
men.  Three  men,  where  once  only  Malcolm  had  dared 
to  enter. 

"  Mr.  Parkins,  is  it  parish  business  ?  "  Aunt  Sarah 
demanded,  recovering  herself. 

The  wretched  young  curate  turned  purple  to  the 
roots  of  his  sandy  hair,  and  the  others,  one  from  the 
circulating  library  and  the  other  from  the  apothecary 
store  on  High  street,  kept  him  company. 

"  And  I  suppose  you,  sir,"  and  she  glared  at  the 
first,  "  have  come  about  the  book  club."  Then  she 
closed  like  a  steel  trap  on  the  apothecary's  young 
man.  "  You'll  excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  can't  imagine  why 
you  are  here  !  " 

Then  up  sprang  Eve.  "  They  are  calling  on  me. 
I  asked  them." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  gentlemen  ;  this  is  a  new  cus- 
tom. I  was  not  aware  of  it.  You'll  excuse  me,  I'm 
sure.  Pray  don't  let  me  hurrj'  you ;  good  morning," 
Miss  Sarah  concluded  with  much  irony,  and  out  she 
stalked. 


JACINTH.  213 

The  truth  is,  it  did  hurry  them,  and  they  departed 
as  if  they  had  been  shot  out  of  a  gun.  Eve  took  a 
long  breath  as  Parkins's  clerical  coat-tails  disappeared. 

"  How  I  hate  her !  "  she  cried  ;  "  how  I  hate  this 
place  !  Why  did  I  ever  come  ?  O,  if  I  were  only 
at  home  again."  She  ran  out  of  the  house,  slamming 
the  doors,  and  leaning  over  the  hedge  she  stared  at 
the  river  through  a  haze  of  angry  tears. 

"  Why,  Miss  Eve,  am  I  always  to  find  you  in  trou- 
ble ?  "  At  the  sound  of  Malcolm's  voice,  she  dashed 
her  tears  away  and  forced  a  smile. 

"  If  everybody  hated  you  and  you  hated  everybody, 
you'd  be  in  trouble,  Mr.  Dunston." 

"What  has  happened  now?"  he  asked,  perplexed 
at  the  footing  of  warfare  upon  which  the  Misses  Mac- 
ilvaine  stood  with  regard  to  their  niece. 

"  Were  you  coming  in  ? "  she  asked,  heedless  of  his 
question. 

"  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  no.  I  was  only  strolling 
by." 

"  Are  you  busy  ?  No  ?  Then  do  me  a  favbr ;  ask 
me  to  take  a  walk." 

"  I  shall  be  only  too  glad.  There  is  Miss  Sarah ; 
I  will  talk  to  her  while  you  fetch  your  wraps." 

"  I  sometimes  feel,"  Eve  explained  to  Malcolm  as 
they  left  the  house,  "  as  if  I  should  die  of  badness  up 
there.  They  act  on  me  like  a — a  plaster — well,  per- 
haps it  is  for  my  good  to  have  the  badness  drawn 
out." 

The  three  old  women,  with  unspeakable  dismay, 
watched  them  until  they  disappeared  down  the  road. 

For  a  moment  Eve  was  silent,  but  at  last  the  signs 
of  conflict  smoothed  themselves  out  of  her  face,  and 
she  looked  up  with  her  old  smile. 

"  Do  you  think  I  am  so  very  horrid,  Mr.  Dun* 
ston  ? " 


214  JACINTH. 

She  was  rather  afraid  of  him,  but  she  enjoyed  the 
emotion. 

"  You  may  lay  it  up  against  me  if  1  tell  you  what 
I  think  of  you." 

"What  an  idea!" 

"  The  truth  is,  perhaps  you  are  a  little  selfish." 

"  Mr.  Dunston,  I  should  like  to  go  home." 

"  I  thought  so." 

•'  You  are  mistaken,"  she  said,  pouting ;  "  on  the 
whole,  I  prefer  to  go  on." 

"  Why  can  you  and  your  aunts  not  agree  ?  " 

"It  is  Jacinth." 

"Jacinth!"  As  he  repeated  the  name,  his  face 
flushed. 

"  They  expected  Jacinth,  and  Jacinth  sent  me  in- 
stead. It  wasn't  my  fault  that  she  wouldn't  come. 
I'm  sure  I  wish  she  had  !  " 

"  And  so — Jacinth  is  alone  at  home  ?  " 

"  Alone  ?  O,  dear,  no.  No  one  is  ever  alone  in 
our  house,  there  are  so  many  of  us;  it's  the  only 
thing  we're  rich  in.  What  Jacinth  has  to  do  ?  Every- 
thing. She  likes  to  work ;  I  don't.  Of  course  you 
know  we're  poor;  it's  no  use  pretending.  As  for 
goodness,  why,  if  you  come  to  that.  Jacinth  is  good- 
ness itself." 

,  "  Does  she  look  like  you  ?  I  don't  quite  remem- 
ber." Listening  with  a  smile  and  a  far-away  look  in 
his  eyes. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no  !  She's  over  thirty,  and  you  know 
light-haired  people  fade  soon.  Besides,"  she  added 
with  much  importance,"  she  has  no  style.  Now,  I'm 
stylish  ;  at  least  so  they  say.  Still,  how  can  she  have 
any  style  !  She  never  goes  anywhere,  not  even  to  the 
theatre  ;  she  never  sees  anyone  but  father  and  mother 
and  the  children,  except  her  pupils,  and  they  are  poor 
and  haven't  any  style.     She  really  hasn't  any  ambi- 


JACINTH.  215 

tion — any  go.  Now  pa  told  me  that  ten  years  ago 
she  was  very  pretty." 

"  Prettier  than  you  are !  "  her  companion  inter- 
posed quietly. 

"  Oh,  no,"  Eve  replied,  shaking  her  head.  "  Of 
course  I  don't  pretend  to  goodness,  as  she  does, 
but—" 

"  But  does  she  pretend  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  Not  pretend  !  She  is  goodness  it- 
self," Eve  cried,  "  but  I  can't  make  believe  not  to 
know  that  I  am  decently  good  looking." 

"  What  shall  you  do  when  your  sister  marries  and 
leaves  you  her  work  to  do  ?  " 

"  Dear  me,  Jacinth  will  never  marry.  Sh£  says  so 
herself.  People's  tastes  are  so  funny  !  Now  I  know 
that  I'm  a  horrid,  selfish  little  thing,  but  I've  more 
offers  than  you'd  believe,  while  Jacinth,  who  is  the 
dearest,  cheerfulest,  most  unselfish  of  creatures, 
why,"  and  she  stood  still,  to  give  emphasis  to  her 
climax,  "  I  never  heard  of  any  one  being  in  love 
with  her  in  my  whole  life." 

Malcolm  looked  down  at  her  with  a  frown,  and  bit 
his  lips. 

"  We'll  go  home  now.  Miss  Eve,"  he  said  abruptly, 
and  led  the  way  back  at  such  a  swinging  pace,  that 
she  had  to  scamper  over  the  ground  to  keep  abreast. 

The  moral  atmosphere  was  all  wrong,  and  when  she 
entered  the  sitting-room,  the  three  old  women  looked 
at  her  with  speechless  disfavor. 

She  went  up  to  the  round  table,  looked  at  them, 
and  then  she  spoke.  "Aunt  Judith,  Aunt  Sarah,  and 
Aunt  Penelope,  I  am  going  home  by  the  next  steam- 
er."    There  was  an  awful  silence. 

"  We  just  can't  get  on  together.  I  suppose  it's  my 
fault,  for  it  seems  that  I  am  horrid  and  selfish.  I  am 
not  really  as  bad  as  I'm  here.  You've  frozen  me  and 
haven't  given  me  time  to  thaw." 


2l6  JACINTH. 

"We  couldn't  think  of  letting  you  go — what  would 
people  say  ? " 

"  Not  let  me  go  ? "  Eve  interrupted  Miss  Judith, 
"why,  then  I'll  run  away,  for  I  am  just  dying,  I'm  so 
homesick,"  and,  throwing  herself  down  by  the  near- 
est chair.  Eve  burst  into  tears. 

Miss  Sarah,  conscience-stricken,  laid  her  hand  on 
Eve's  shoulder.  At  the  touch  she  sprang  up,  with  a 
faint  quiver  of  her  lips. 

"  If  you'll  only  let  me  go,  I'll  think  kindly  of  you 
all.  I'm  selfish,  I  found  that  out  to-day ;  but  I  didn't 
mean  badly.  I'll  go  home  and  send  Jacinth  instead, 
then,  perhaps,  you'll  forgive  me  for  coming.  I  never 
thought,"  she  confessed,  "that  anyone  would  like 
Jacinth,  and  not  me.  I'll  be  willing  to  scrub  and 
take  care  of  the  babies,  if  I  can  only  go  home  and 
sometimes  go  to  the  theatre  with  pa,"  and  at  that 
reflection  she  brightened. 

So,  somehow,  it  was  tacitly  decided  that  Eve  was  to 
return  to  America,  and  in  a  few  days  the  impossible 
trunk  was  once  more  lifted  to  the  top  of  the  Roth- 
mere  cab. 

At  the  railroad  station  Malcolm  was  waiting  for 
them,  and  at  sight  of  his  erect  figure,  Eve's  heart  gave 
a  thump. 

As  he  helped  her  into  the  railway  carriage  she 
turned  and  said  softly,  "  I  am  going  home  to  try 
and  learn  from  Jacinth  how  to  be  unselfish." 

For  a  moment  she  wondered  at  the  light  in  his 
face,  and  that  he  should  stoop  to  kiss  her  slender 
hand.  Then  her  light  heart  beat  fast  as  he  said, 
"  We  shall  see  each  other  again,  for  I  am  going  to 
America  in  a  few  weeks.  For  the  first  time  in  ten 
years  I  shall  be  idle.  Wish  me  happiness,  little  Eve, 
and — God  bless  you.  There  is  no  need,  you  see,  of 
saying  good-by." 


JACINTH.  217 


V. 

SO  Eve  came  back  again  to  the  shabby  street  in 
New  York.  Jacinth  stood  at  the  door,  waiting 
for  her,  with  all  the  small  Macilvaines  clinging  to  her 
skirts. 

"  We've  missed  your  bright  face  sadly,  my  darling," 
she  said,  as  Eve  hid  her  face  on  her  sister's  shoulder 
and  began  to  cry,  to  the  anguish  of  the  little  Macil- 
vaines and  the  sympathetic  interest  of  the  hackman. 

It  seemed  to  Eve  as  if  she  looked  at  Jacinth  for 
the  first  time.  What  business  had  she  to  wear  that 
mean,  faded,  skimpy  gown  ?  Why  did  she  brush  the 
fair,  soft  curls  from  her  forehead,  till  each  wrinkle 
(and  there  were  wrinkles)  stood  out  for  its  full  worth  } 
Why  need  her  blue  eyes  look  so  unreasonably  kind 
and  quiet  ? 

Eve  pitied  her  with  impulsive  remorse,  and  she  con- 
tinued to  sob  until,  in  a  pause,  she  looked  up 'with  a 
faint  laugh  into  Jacinth's  distressed  face. 

"  It's  because  I'm  so  happy,"  she  explained.  "  But 
you  just  wait,  Jacinth,  after  I've  seen  mother  I'll  tell 
you  something." 

Under  the  branches  of  the  hat-rack  in  the  entry, 
Eve  at  last  made  her  confession  to  Jacinth.  "  I  prom- 
ised some  one  that  I'd  be  good,  Jacinth,"  and  she 
looked  down  with  a  smile.  "  Just  now  I  said  I  hated 
them  all.  That  isn't  true.  I  like  one,  and  that  one, 
well,  that  one  is  a  man." 

"Thank  God,  my  darling.  You  will  be  happy, 
and  you  will  make  him  a  good  wife,"  and,  with  a 
quick  impulse.  Jacinth  drew  the  pretty  face  to  her 
breast  and  kissed  her  sister. 

"  It  hasn't  gone  so  far  as  that,"  Eve  confessed. 
"  He  is  coming  to  America,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it 


2l8  JACINTH. 

was  only  what  he  said  at  parting  that  first  made  me 
think  that  he  really  liked  me.  He's  a  great  deal 
older  than  I ;  but  he's  really  a  fine  match  and — well, 
I  like  him.  Just  imagine,  Jacinth,  why,  he  knows  you, 
and  admires  you  very  much.  Indeed,  he  gave  me  to 
understand  that  I  was  a  horrid,  selfish  little  pig.  The 
first  day  he  called  he  expected  to  find  you.  Perhaps 
you  remember  him — Malcolm  Dunston  ?  " 

Did  she  remember  him  ?  She  had  tried  to  cheat 
her  heart  and  now  she  stood  shrinking  together  as  if 
she  had  received  a  blow.  Then,  to  punish  her  own 
weakness,  she  said,  "  I  thank  God  for  it,  my  darling, 
for  he  is  a  good  man,  and  you  will  be  happy." 

There  was  an  air  of  smouldering  excitement  in  the 
Macilvaine  dwelling.  Mr.  Macilvaine  had  received 
a  letter,  the  object  of  which— for  the  Macilvaines  dis- 
dained all  mystery — was  known  even  to  the  youngest. 

The  letter  was  from  Malcolm  Dunston.  He  had 
come  to  New  York  on  purpose  to  see  Mr.  Macilvaine, 
and  he  took  this  opportunity  to  ask  for  the  honor  of 
Miss  Macilvaine's  hand  in  marriage.  In  deference 
to  his  own  old-world  notions,  and  as  a  simple  man  of 
business,  he  first  addressed  Mr.  Macilvaine.  At  the 
same  time  he  begged  permission  to  call  that  evening 
to  learn  his  fate. 

"  So  I  suppose  I  may  consider  you  as  good  as 
married,  Eve,"  Mr.  Macilvaine  remarked,  patheti- 
cally. "  I'm  sorry  that  I  have  to  go  out  to-night 
when  Mr.  Dunston  comes,  but  I  guess  you  and  Ja- 
cinth can  take  care  of  him." 

In  honor  of  the  occasion,  one  small  Macilvaine 
was  delegated  to  open  the  door ;  to  which  end  Ja- 
cinth scrubbed  him,  and  cheered  him  with  promises 
of  candy.  Then  she  hurried  up  to  the  room  where 
Eve  was  dressing. 

"  Why,  darling,  you're  worthy  of  the  king,"  she 


JACINTH.  219 

said,  fondly,  examining  the  pretty  figure,  when,  sud- 
denly, unmindful  of  her  dress,  Eve  flung  her  arms 
about  her  sister. 

"  O  Jacinth,  Jacinth,  how  I  love  you  !  "  she  cried, 
"  How  good  you  are  ;  if  I  could  only  once  show  you 
that  I  am  truly  grateful." 

From  below  there  came  the  tinkle  of  the  door  bell, 
and  Jacinth  freed  herself  gently,  and  listened.  There 
was  the  sound  of  scuffling  feet,  for  five  young  Macil- 
vaines  had  supported  their  brother  in  the  trial  of 
opening  the  door ;  the  next  instant  a  shrill,  small 
voice,  ignoring  gentility,  called  up  from  below,  "  Here 
he  is,  sis,  come  down." 

Rather  pale,  but  all  the  prettier  for  that,  Eve  kissed 
her  sister  and  went  slowly  downstairs. 

Jacinth  roused  herself  with  an  effort,  and  tried  to 
put  order  in  the  confusion  about,  but  to  no  purpose. 
Shivering,  she  took  up  a  little  red  knit  shawl,  and 
drawing  it  about  her  shoulders,  she  sat  down  on  the 
bed  and  softly  rubbed  her  hands.  , 

She  dared  not  think.  "  I  am  so  wicked,  so  sel- 
fish," she  cried  in  her  despair,  when  the  door  was 
quickly  opened  again,  and  Eve  stood  before  her. 

"  Eve,  my  child,  my  dear,  what  has  happened  ? " 

Eve's  face  was  as  white  as  her  own,  but  she  smiled 
as  she  laid  her  hand  on  Jacinth's  shoulder. 

"  Jacinth,  Jacinth,  you  know  that  I  love  you." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Eve,  what  has  happened  ?  " 

"  You  know  whatahare-brained,  fickle-mipded  kind 
of  a  creature  I  am.  I  —  I  don't  care  a  snap  for  — 
Malcolm,  Jacinth  ;  I  never  would  have  thought  of 
him,  if  he  hadn't  told  me  the  day  I  left  that  he  was 
coming  to  America.  I — I  thought  that  he  meant  me 
all  along — I'm  such  a  little  fool,"  and  Eve  smiled 
even  more  brightly. 

"  Eve  !  Eve,  what  does  this  mean  !  " 

•*  It  means,  my  dear,  dear,  that  it  was  all  a  mistake." 


220  JACINTH. 

"  How  dared  he !  " 

"O,  Jacinth,  it's  all  my  fault.  For  my  sake  for- 
give him.  I  should  die  if  he  ever  knew  how  foolish 
I  had  been.  See,  he  has  been  so  faithful,  waiting 
and  working  for  you  for  ten  long  years.  If  you  had 
only  seen  the  light  in  his  -eyes  when  he  asked  me, 
'  Why  doesn't  Jacinth  come  ? '  He  has  no  idea  how 
silly  I  was.  There,  let  me  curl  your  hair  about  your 
face — let  me  put  in  this  bit  of  ribbon  at  your  throat. 
No  ?  Oh,  Jacinth,  Jacinth,  you  grudge  happiness 
only  to  yourself," 

With  a  bewildered  start  Jacinth  came  to  herself, 
and,  drawing  the  shabby  knit  shawl  tightly  about  her 
shoulders,  she  crept  downstairs  to  her  fate. 

She  paused  at  the  threshold  of  the  shabby  parlor 
and,  for  a  moment,  she  listened  to  his  impatient  stride. 

"  He  shall  see  me  just  as  I  am  "  she  thought.  She 
would  not  spare  herself.  At  the  sound  of  the  slowly 
opening  door  he  turned,  and  so  he  saw  her  once  again  : 
a  slender,  faded  woman  in  a  little,  faded  shawl,  with 
the  sign  of  trouble  in  her  blue  eyes  and  on  her  open 
forehead.     But  she  was  the  woman  he  loved. 

"Jacinth!  my  love,  my  darling,  at  last!  "  he  cried, 
and  held  her  in  his  strong  arms,  and  bending  his 
handsome  head,  he  kissed  her  with  something  of 
compassion  born  of  the  most  innocent  self-conceit. 

"  The  sorrow  in  her  face  was  all  for  me,"  he  thought, 
exulting. 

And  so  they  were  married,  and  happiness,  the  great 
magician,  made  Jacinth  young  and  fair  again. 


A  FREAK  OF  FATE. 


BERTHOLET  declared  gloomily  that  he  meant 
to  see  something  of  "  life." 

You  would  not  believe  how  he  clung  to  youth,  or, 
rather,  the  wild  fantasies  of  Parisian  youth,  in  the 
shape  of  wide  trousers,  cuffs  that  scratched  his 
knuckles,  and  a  shirt  collar  too  tall  behind  and  too 
low  in  front.  He  nursed  his  sparse  dyed  hair  with 
pathetic  anxiety,  and  so  pomaded  and  perfumed  him- 
self, that  he  carried  about  his  own  sacred  atmosphere, 
to  Madame's  disgust. 

Madame  Bertholet's  objections  to  her  husband 
dated  from  their  wedding-day.  He  was  not  her  ideal 
when  his  hair  was  brown,  not  green, — accidents  will 
happen, — and  when  his  teeth  were  his  own,  and  after 
thirty  years  of  married  life,  custom  had  failed  to  rec- 
oncile Madame  to  the  inevitable. 

Thirty  years  ago  Madame  was  round  and  rosy, 
with  a  slightly  hard  line  about  the  corners  of  her 
mouth.  Time,  that  jester,  amused  himself  by  exag- 
gerating these  characteristics :  Madame's  roundness 
had  developed  into  fourteen  stone,  and  her  complexion 
to  what  it  would  be  false  politeness  to  term  rosy. 
The  hard  line  had  crept  up  to  her  black  eyes,  and 
found  congenial  outlet  in  a  prayer-book  with  a  steel 
clasp. 

Madame  was  Calvinistic,  and  life  was  to  her  neither 
a  pleasure  nor  a  joke.  Neither  was  it  to  Monsieur. 
He  was  not  Calvinistic,  but  he  reflected  Madame's 

(221) 


222  A   FREAK  OF  FATE. 

moods,  and  so  distorted  them  that  when  she  spoke 
of  death,  with  the  profound  indifference  born  of  the 
toughest  life,  Monsieur,  pulling  his  stiff  cuffs  over  his 
lean  knuckles,  imagined  he  was  already  dead. 

The  trouble  was  that  Monsieur  Bertholet  was  rich. 
He  had  amassed  a  fortune  in  supplying  Paris  with 
horse-flesh  in  the  guise  of  joints  and  cutlets,  till  at  last 
Madame,  who  was  ambitious,  suggested  selling  out, 
and  retiring  into  the  gloomy  grandeur  of  a  mansion 
whose  noble  occupant  had  left  his  fortune  on  various 
roulette  tables,  and  who  gladly  disposed  of  his  family 
mansion  on  condition  that  a  single  room  was  reserved 
for  his  own  use. 

Madame's  soul  rejoiced  in  the  gloom  of  her  new 
acquisition.  It  did  her  good  to  see  her  family  strug- 
gle over  the  slippery  floors,  or  lean  their  harassed 
backs  against  the  perpendicular  stiffness  of  the  chairs. 

Two  vulnerable  spots  there  were,  however,  in  her 
rigorous  heart :  Monsieur  le  Pasteur  and  "  the  little 
one."  Madame's  pastor  was  a  comfortable  sight,  sit- 
ting by  the  fire  in  the  only  easy-chair,  sipping  curagoa 
or  crunching  chocolate  confits  sacred  to  his  coming, 
while  he  and  Madame  pronounced  damning  judg- 
ments on  heathen,  Jews,  and  Christians. 

"  I  do  not  often  see  Monsieur  Auguste  at  church, 
my  daughter,"  M.  le  Pasteur  would  say. 

"  My  poor  little  one,  he  works  so  hard,  and  Sundays 
he  is  so  tired.     You  know  he  is  delicate." 

Whereupon  M.  le  Pasteur  brushed  a  few  crumbs 
from  his  priestly  coat  and  coughed.  However,  he 
only  crunched  some  more  chocolate  and  said  nothing. 

There  was  a  fiction  in  the  family  called  "  the  little 
one,"  otherwise  Auguste.  He  was  Madame's  hot- 
house growth,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-eight — in  the 
intervals  of  studying  law — was  fed  by  her  on  the  most 
harmless  pap  of  knowledge.  It  was  his  mother's 
mission  in  life  to  show  him  the  nice,  straight  path  of 


A   FREAK  OF  FATE.  223 

existence,  which  would  lead  him  to  the  fortune  of  a 
Calvinistic  maiden. 

Monsieur  Bertholet  was  early  sacrificed  to  the  fiction 
of  "  the  little  one's  "  innocence,  and,  not  to  contami- 
nate the  infantile  purity  of  his  own  son,  the  un- 
happy man  was  restricted  to  a  life  of  such  monoto- 
nous misery  that,  driven  to  extremity,  he  had  even 
tried  to  make  friends  with  Madame,  and  M.  le  Pasteur. 
In  both  efforts  he  signally  failed.  Then  he  lingered 
about  the  kitchen,  and  being,  so  to  speak,  ejected, 
prowled  about  the  stairs.  The  noble  occupant  of  the 
third  floor  back,  coming  down  one  evening,  recog- 
nized, with  a  grim  smile,  in  the  solitary  figure  lean- 
ing against  the  banisters,  a  humble  imitation  of  his 
own  scant  hair  and  generous  linen. 

"M.  le  Comte,"  Bertholet  murmured,  gratefully, 
as  that  nobleman  threw  him  a  smile. 

The  next  day  the  same  meeting  ;  M.  le  Comte  said 
a  word  or  two.  Three  days  after,  Bertholet  confessed 
to  Madame  that  M.  le  Comte  had  invited  him  to  his 
club.  • 

"  Is  it  a  righteous  place  ? "  Madame  asked  M.  le 
Pasteur,  lifting  her  black  eyebrows. 

M.  le  Pasteur  was  in  his  usual  place  by  the  hearth. 

"  Heavens,  yes  !  To  be  sure  they  play  a  game  or 
two  at  cards,  of  an  evening ;  but  it  is  very  noble  and 
select;"  and  so  Bertholet  was  allowed  to  go. 

Bertholet  went,  and  sensibly  kept  the  secret  of  the 
five  thousand  francs  he  had  lost  to  his  accommodating 
tenant. 

M.  le  Comte  being  a  gentlemanly  blackguard,  and, 
having  present  supply,  dropped  his  landlord,  who, 
however,  preserved  the  fiction  of  this  friendship,  and, 
under  its  shelter,  even  reached  a  certain  theatre  whose 
very  name  suggests  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil. 

There  was  something  of  good  in  Bertholet's  sinful 
heart,  that  the  thought  of "  the  little  one  "  should  hiaunt 


224  A   FREAK  OF   FATE. 

him  as  he  sank  into  the  velvet  arm-chair,  and  looked 
stealthily  at  the  audience. 

"Think  of  .the  'little  one,'"  the  fiddles  scratched 
and  the  flutes  piped,  while  the  double-bass  and  the 
trombones  added,  ominously,  "  and  Madame," 

Monsieur  Bertholet's  gaze  wandered  enviously  to- 
ward the  stalls  where  the  jeunesse  doree  lolled  in  aris- 
tocratic laziness,  and  beheld,  to  his  gasping  amaze- 
ment, "  the  little  one,"— M.  Auguste,— in  claw-hammer, 
an  inherited  fondness  for  a  too  expansive  display  of 
linen,  and  a  fashion  of  studying  the  stage  through  his 
opera  glass  that  but  too  surely  betokened  much  prac- 
tice. 

^' Mon  Dieu!"  M.  Bertholet  gasped,  then  a  faint 
grin  dawned  over  his  face.  "  So !  These  are  the 
prayer  meetings  he  attends — ha,  ha !  " 

As  father,  M.  Bertholet  was,  for  a  moment,  over- 
come, but  he  was,  however,  mortal,  and  a  feeling 
of  joy  stole  over  his  heart  to  think  how  Madame  was 
being  deceived,  and,  being  human  before  being  a 
father,  M.  Bertholet  smiled  again,  sat  a  little  more 
at  ease  in  the  shadow  of  the  lace  curtains,  and  de- 
voted his  undivided  attention  to  the  stage. 

From  that  day  M.  Bertholet,  having  lost  all  inter- 
est in  making  a  shining  example  of  himself,  quite 
forsook  the  path  of  virtue,  and  hardly  again  darkened 
the  slippery  threshold  of  Madame's  salon.  "  Life  " 
was  to  M.  Bertholet  an  awful  phrase,  unbefitting  the 
Calvinistic  sanctity  of  the  parlor.  Indeed,  it  was 
only  to  be  dreamed  of  far  away  from  Madame's  pres- 
ence ;  so  M.  Bertholet,  having  weighed  the  pros  and 
cons  in  his  distracted  mind,  determined  to  flee  to 
some  congenial  land,  where  plunging  into  mysterious 
depths  was  compatible  with  personal  security.  In 
other  words,  he  decided  to  take  his  fortune  and,  in 
disguise,  to  fly  to  parts  unknown. 


A  FREAK  OF  FATE.  22$ 


II. 

THREE  days  after,  M.  Bertholet  disappeared  from 
the  bosom  of  his  family. 

Gradually  it  dawned  on  Madame  and  "the  little 
one,"  that  something  unusual  had  happened,  but  they 
bore  the  uncertainty  with  calmness  till  the  third  day, 
when  they  both  hurried  in  secret  to  M.  Bertholet's 
lawyer,  for  information  about  the  will.  There,  to  their 
momentary  confusion,  they  met. 

"  Little  one  !  " 

"Mother!" 

M.  Auguste  was  round,  like  his  mother,  and  his 
hair  lay  over  his  forehead  in  a  shining  sweep.  He 
pressed  his  hat  to  his  heart,  and  remarked  gently — 
for  he  was  always  polite — that  if  his  sainted  father 
had  left  no  will,  the  greater  part  of  the  property  would 
revert  to  him,  M.  Auguste. 

Madame  looked  up  with  a  gasp,  and,  for  a  mo- 
ment, her  face  turned  to  a  dull  yellow.  Was  ttiis  her 
Auguste,  her  "  little  one  "  ^ 

"  In  fact,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  I  mean  to 
marry,  now  that  I  am  my  own  master." 

"  You — marry,  '  little  one '  ? "  Madame  gasped. 

"Confound  'little  one'!"  M,  Auguste  replied,  with 
some  exasperation. 

"  Little  one  !  "  and  Madame  stamped  her  foot,  "  I 
—I  forbid  it !  " 

M.  Auguste  turned  on  her  with  a  most  unfilial  look 
in  his  small  black  eyes. 

"  Suppose,  mother,  your  '  little  one '  were  already 
married  ? " 

With  astonishing  quickness  Madame  leaped  to  her 
feet  and  boxed  M.  Auguste's  ears. 

"  I — I  hope  he  isn't  dead  !  I  hope  he'll  come  back 
and  send  you  begging,  miserable  I  " 

15 


226  A   FREAK   OF  FATE. 

**  But  then,  mother,  you  will  not  be  able  to  marry 
M.  le  Pasteur." 

An  angry  red  swept  over  Madame's  face,  and,  with 
the  last  of  her  by  no  means  feeble  strength,  she  gave 
her  child  another  blow,  and  sank  exhausted  into  a 
chair. 

One  side  of  his  face  was  white,  and  the  other  red 
with  the  marks  of  five  fingers. 

He  stood  before  his  mother,  hat  in  hand,  and  said, 
quite  politely : 

"  Come  and  see  us — bring  M.  le  Pasteur.  My  wife 
is  an  angel. — She  dances  at  the  '  Varietes.'  " 

"  Wretch." 

M.  Auguste  turned  with  a  shrug,  and  nearly  fell 
against  a  little  man  with  a  quill  behind  his  ear. 

"  Madame  !  "  He  held  a  brown  snuffbox,  which 
he  snapped  with  nervous  violence. 

"  Well,  M.  le  Notar  ?  " 

"  M.  Bertholet  cannot  be  dead." 

Madame's  eyes  flashed  triumphantly,  while  "  the 
little  one,"  turning  the  door  handle,  muttered  an  oath. 

"  I  fear,"  the  little  notary  said,  turning  from  mother 
to  son, — "  I  fear,  from  all  I  have  discovered,  that 
Monsieur  Bertholet  has  run  away  with  his  own  for- 
tune, five  hundred  thousand  francs,  and  that  he  has 
left  nothing  behind." 

Madame  did  not  faint,  but  she  leaned  back  in  her 
chair  and  stared  into  vacancy. 

"  Not  dead,  but  gone  !  Gone  with  all  the  money 
— our  money — my  money  !  " 

"  You  are  no  better  off  than  I,  mother." 

She  looked  up.  M.  Auguste  stood  before  her, 
twirling  his  cane.  "  I  am  going  in  search  of  him, 
poor  old  man  ;  and  when  I  find  him  I  shall  make  his 
life  pleasant.  Good-by,  mother — come  and  see  us," 
and  so  with  a  polite  bow  he  left  the  room. 

"  Little  one  !  " 


A   FREAK  OF  FATE.  22/ 

A  man  who  can  run  away  with  five  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  is  not  to  be  despised,  and  Madame  felt 
that  she  had,  perhaps,  been  a  little  unsympathetic  in 
her  treatment  of  Bertholet. 

She  rose  in  unfeigned  trouble.  "  He  must  be 
found,"  she  said  to  the  lawyer.  "  He  must  have 
been  mad  to  have  deserted  me.  Employ  detectives — 
anything — but  bring  him  back.  Five  hundred  thou- 
sand francs,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  the  little 
man's  arm, — "five  hundred  thousand  francs  left  with- 
out guidance  in  a  sinful  world,  will  come  to  no  good." 


III. 

MONSIEUR  BERTHOLET,  trying  to  lose  him- 
self in  the  great  Northern  Railway  station,  felt 
the  by  no  means  strange  sensation  that  the  eyes  of 
the  world  were  upon  him.  A  flaxen  beard  and  wig, 
marvelous  checked  trousers,  and  a  tall  gray  hat,  had 
transformed  him  into  the  Frenchman's  ideal  of  an 
Englishman,  and  filled  his  French  soul  with  disgust. 

In  a  frenzied  effort  to  discover  whether  the  train 
destined  to  bear  him  to  Calais — and  to  London  and 
liberty — ever  meant  to  start,  he  tangled  himself  in 
the  meshes  of  wheelbarrows,  porters,  and  travelers. 
He  was  jostled  about  and  hurried  along,  till  at  last 
he  stood,  aching  and  battered,  behind  three  broad- 
shouldered  fellows,  in  whose  shadow  he  hid  himself, 
while  he  hugged  to  his  breast  a  small  newspaper  par- 
cel, his  only  luggage. 

He  breathed  more  freely,  and  looked  with  silent 
envy  at  the  broad  backs  before  him.  They  were  only 
common  soldiers,  these  three — poor  devils,  with  the 
prospect  of  a  third-class  ride,  and  a  meal  of  dry 
bread  out  of  the  forage-bag  each  carried  slung  across 
his  shoulders. 


228  A   FREAK  OF  FATE. 

A  whistle  and  a  shriek  from  the  engine.  "  Calais  ! 
Calais  !  "  and  then  a  skurry  and  rush  of  people  down 
the  platform. 

"  Tiens  /  Duval,  the  old  Englishman  has  gone," 
and  one  of  the  soldiers  looked  over  his  shoulder. 

Gone  ?  Poor  M.  Bertholet  had  made  a  dash  for  a 
coupi,  when  a  couple  of  arms  were  thrown  about  his 
neck,  and  an  affectionate  kiss  resounded  on  each  of 
his  cheeks. 

"  Little  one  !  " 

"  I  knew  you,"  Augusta  cried,  gleefully.  "  I  knew 
your  walk." 

"  Let  me  go ! "  and  M,  Bertholet  struggled  to  free 
himself. 

It  was  an  unpropitious  time  for  explanations ;  bells 
were  ringing,  and  barrow-loads  of  luggage  threatened 
destruction  to  their  legs. 

"  Come  home  with  me,  and  you  shall  have  a  rous- 
ing good  time  !  "  Auguste  shouted,  just  as  his  father 
leaped  towards  the  train,  with  the  cry  : 

"  Dieu  1 — Dieu  1 — your  mother !  " 

Sure  enough,  there  was  Madame,  struggling  through 
the  crowd,  and  searching  with  keen  black  eyes, 

M.  Bertholet  was  appalled  ;  but  he  had  also  the 
strength  of  utter  despair.  How  he  freed  himself 
from  Auguste's  encircling  arms  he  never  knew  \  but 
he  struck  wildly  out,  leaped  into  an  empty  coupk,  and 
slammed  the  door,  just  as,  with  a  puff  and  a  shriek 
from  the  engine,  the  train  glided  out  of  the  station. 

Madame  stared  blankly  into  "  the  little  one's " 
face.  '■'Imbecile!"  she  cried,  and  turned  her  broad 
back  on  him,  and  wrung  her  hands  under  her  lady- 
like shawl. 

M.  Auguste  had  traced  his  father  easily  enough, 
and  Madame  had  watched  M.  Auguste,  and  this  was 
the  end  of  their  successful  scheming.  Tears  filled  her 
angry  eyes,  and  so  blinded  them  that,  as  she  turned 


A   FREAK  OF  FATE.  229 

She  stumbled  against  a  broad-shouldered  soldier,  who 
muttered  something  under  his  curly  dark  mustache, 
before  he  saw  that  it  was  a  lady.  Then  he  made  a 
hasty  military  salute,  and  rejoined  his  two  friends. 

"  Ah,  Chelot,  the  day  is  out  of  joint  with  you  ! " 
the  man  called  Duval  cried,  as  the  other  came  up, 
and  he  kicked  at  an  unsightly  newspaper  parcel,  that 
had  been  rolled  and  pushed  along,  till  it  touched  his 
hobnailed  boots.  The  package  was  rather  small, 
round,  and  dusty,  and  did  not  invite  inspection. 

Chelot  said  nothing,  but  a  look  of  pain  came  into 
his  honest  brown  eyes,  as  he  watched  the  other  two 
play  at  foot-ball  with  the  accidental  plaything. 

As  for  M.  Auguste,  he  stood  for  a  moment  per- 
fectly helpless,  grasping  his  inoffensive,  retreating 
chin  with  one  hand,  while  he  wondered  angrily  how 
everybody  could  be  so  calm ;  wondered  what  those 
three  men  would  do  if  they  had  lost  five  hundred 
thousand  francs — those  three  men  who,  he  hoped, 
would  get  shot  some  day  for  the  way  they  grinned 
as  he  pushed  past  them,  • 

In  a  coupi  of  the  train  tearing  Calais-ward  at  the 
rate  of  fifty  miles  an  hour,  a  mysterious  old  gentle- 
man was  rolling  over  the  seats  and  beating  his  bald 
head  against  the  cushions. 

"  Lost !  lost !  lost ! "  he  screamed,  over  and  over 
again.  "  Five  hundred  thousand  francs  in  a  news- 
paper parcel !  Guard,  for  heaven's  sake,  stop  the 
train  ! " 

"  Five  hundred  thousand  francs  in  a  newspaper ! 
Monsieur  is  wild,"  the  guard  said,  looking  in.  "  But 
if  it  will  quiet  Monsieur,  he  shall  be  listened  to  at 
Calais." 

But  nothing  would  persuade  M.  Bertholet  to  be 
quiet.  He  tried  to  leap  out  of  the  window,  and,  be- 
ing held  back  by  force,  flung  himself  at  full  length 
on  the  floor. 


230  A   FREAK  OF   FATE. 

Quick  as  lightning  the  guard  tied  his  hands  behind 
his  back  with  a  handy  cord,  and  left  him,  after  he  had 
made  a  neat  pile  of  a  yellow  beard  and  wig,  a  tall 
white  hat  and  a  pair  of  blue  spectacles. 

As  for  M.  Bertholet,  he  lay  prone,  and,  having 
struggled  all  the  strength  out  of  himself,  he  could  only 
gasp: 

"  Lost — lost — lost — five  hundred  thousand  francs 
wrapped  in  a  newspaper  !  " 


IV. 

THOSE  were  the  days  of  the  third  Napoleon  and 
Mexican  ambition.  That  glittering  bubble,  the 
Empire,  had  soared  its  highest,  was  glittering  its 
gaudiest,  and,  like  all  bubbles  under  the  same  cir- 
cumstances, it  was  about  to  burst. 

Chelot,  waiting  for  the  train  to  Merle,  strode  up 
and  down  the  platform,  with  thoughts  far  away  in  the 
village,  three  miles  beyond  Merle,  where  Claude  used 
to  wait  for  him,  under  the  big  chestnut  tree  before  the 
mill  with  its  red  gable. 

Of  the  other  two,  Duval,  still  kicking  the  impro- 
vised foot-ball,  remarked  that  such  a  wet  blanket  of 
a  friend  as  Chelot  he  had  never  seen. 

"  In  six  days  he'll  be  sick — deadly  sick,"  the  other, 
Jean  Pierre,  added,  tilting  himself  up  and  down,  ship 
fashion. 

"  In  three  weeks,  Chelot,  you'll  be  making  love  to 
a  Mexican  ma'm'selle." 

"  In  three  weeks  Ma'm'selle  Claude  will  be  for- 
gotten," 

Chelot  turned  his  back  on  them,  and  strode  to  the 
edge  of  the  platform,  just  as  the  train  came  along- 
side. 


A  FREAK  OF  FATE.  23 1 

"  Ah  del,  the  old  boy  is  angry  !  I  say,  Chelot,  for^ 
get  bad  jokes  !  "  Duval  cried. 

But  Chelot  was  sick  and  sore,  and,  somehow,  he 
couldn't  turn  his  honest  face  about  with  a  pleasant 
smile,  so  he  sprang  on  the  coupk  step  and  paid  no  at- 
tention. Duval  gave  a  parting  kick  to  the  dusty  news- 
paper and  hurried  after  him. 

"Old  boy,"  he  said,  with  a  friendly  blow  on  his 
shoulder,  "  why  be  angry  at  foolish  words  ?  We 
were  always  good  friends ;  so  come,  now,  and  shake 
hands.  You're  going  far  away,  and  who  knows  the  for- 
tune of  war.  Bah  ! "  he  cried,  hastily,  "  I  mean  to 
dance  at  your  wedding  till  I  drop !  "  And  he  wrung 
Chelot's  outstretched  hand. 

"  Now,  there's  Jean  Pierre  ;  take  his  hand  \  he's  a 
good  fellow." 

Jean  Pierre,  who  had  strolled  up,  was  a  bit  of  a 
joker,  and  while  he  shook  Chelot's  hand,  he  secretly 
thrust  a  battered  newspaper  bundle  into  his  forage 
bag,  rejoicing,  with  the  hollow  joy  of  all  practical 
jokers,  to  think  of  the  disappointment  in  store  when 
he  should  pull  out  the  dirty  paper,  instead  of  the 
piece  of  bread  underneath. 

Chelot  leaned  out  of  the  car  window  and  watched 
them  sadly,  till  the  train  swung  around  a  curve  and 
tore  its  way  into  the  golden  summer  afternoon. 

Chelot  was  young,  and  five  days  ago,  before  the 
news  came  that  his  regiment  was  ordered  to  Mexico, 
he  had  loved  all  the  world  in  his  honest  fashion,  be- 
cause Claude  was  his  world  and  Claude  loved  him. 
But  now,  in  six  days,  his  regiment  was  ordered  to 
sail ;  but  six  days  of  youth  and  love  are  better  than 
ten  years  of  old  age,  he  thought,  and  he  stroked  his 
brown  mustache  and  imagined  Claude's  surprise  at 
sight  of  him.  Five  days  of  happiness,  and  then  he 
would  gently  tell  her  that  he  must  leave  her  for  a 
long   time,   perhaps  forever.     He   leaned  his  head 


232  A  FREAK  OF  FATE. 

against  the  window,  and  watched  the  wheat  fields 
bend  beneath  the  sweep  of  the  summer  wind,  that 
touched  the  frail  petals  of  the  scarlet  poppies,  till 
they  hid  beneath  the  ripening  grain.  The  apple  trees 
were  heavy  with  fruit,  and  between  the  orchards  and 
far-spreading  fields,  the  red-roofed  farmhouses  twin- 
kled into  sight.  Flocks  of  sheep,  nibbling  peacefully 
in  the  pastures,  followed  the  bell-wether,  and  scam- 
pered into  safe  distance.  At  last  came  Merle,  where 
Chelot  leaped  out,  gave  himself  a  shake  by  way  of 
toilet,  and  looked  down  with  pride  at  his  scarlet 
trousers  and  smoothed  his  blue  jacket.  He  swung 
his  forage-bag  a  trifle  farther  back,  gave  a  cock  to  his 
cap,  and  trudged  down  the  highway  with  an  easy, 
swinging  gait  that  sent  the  blood  to  his  brown  face 
and  made  his  eyes  sparkle.  "  In  five  days  ?  Ah,  bah  ! 
Vogue  la  galore  !^'  He  whistled  a  merry  tune,  trudging 
up  and  down  hill  to  Plaileroi  and  Claude.  At  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  just  beyond  the  bridge,  lay  the  mill  with 
the  ancient  chestnut  street  standing  before  the  door, 
where  the  time-worn  millstones  were  piled,  step- 
fashion,  to  the  broad  threshold,  where  Claude  sat, 
summer  evenings,  spinning  and  waiting  for  him. 
Chelot  knew  every  stone  and  tree  on  the  road.  The 
children  came  up  and  touched  him  with  friendly, 
black  paws,  and  the  landlord  of  the  "  Pot-au-Feu " 
shook  his  tassel ed  nightcap  at  him. 

"  If  thou  art  not  too  tired  for  a  dance  in  the  kitchen, 
bring  thy  sweetheart  after  dusk  and  show  us  what  thy 
legs  can  do." 

No  wonder  that  the  landlord  of  the  "  Pot-au-Feu  " 
was  maire  of  Plaileroi :  he  knew  how  to  make  himself 
necessary. 

The  young  man  shouted  back  a  joyous  acceptance, 
and  sprang  down  hill,  while  his  heart  beat  like  a  sledge- 
hammer, as  he  crossed  the  bridge  over  the  mill-stream 
and  saw  the  huge  wheel  turn  noisily.     He  was  so 


A   FREAK  OF  FATE.  233 

near  that  he  could  distinguish  a  dusty,  white  figure 
in  the  door-way — the  miller — scraping  and  bowing  to 
a  retreating  figure,  who  passed  Chelot  just  as  he 
reached  the  chestnut  tree, — a  long,  lank  personage, 
with  a  yellow  face,  in  the  ominous  elegance  of  broad- 
cloth, baggy  at  the  knees  and  too  short  at  the  wrists, 
and  with  a  huge  bouquet  on  his  breast.  Chelot  glanced 
after  him,  with  an  instinctive  desire  to  punch  his  shiny 
tall  hat  a  foot  or  two  deeper  over  his  face  and  dusty 
hair;  then  he  turned  towards  the  house.  The  miller 
had  disappeared,  and  he  stood  alone  under  the  chest- 
nut tree,  with  the  exception  of  a  donkey  hitched  to  a 
cart,  who  was  examining  his  legs  with  profound  at- 
tention. So  this  was  the  coming  back  to  Plaileroi 
and  Claude ! 

He  sat  down  disconsolately  on  the  benqh,  and  the 
next  instant  a  shower  of  chestnut  burrs  and  leaves 
rained  down  upon  him. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  looking  up  between  the 
dark  branches,  caught  sight  of  a  laughing,  rosy  face 
peeping  at  him  through  the  clustering  chestnut  leaves, 
and  tantalizingly  out  of  his  reach. 

"  Claude ! " 

There  was  a  sparkle  of  white  teeth  and  a  funny 
nod  of  a  brown  head  toward  the  figure  plodding  down 
the  road.  Then,  with  a  warning  "  Chut !  "  Claude 
glided  and  scrambled  out  of  her  hiding-place,  and 
fell  into  her  lover's  outstretched  arms. 

"  I  have  you  again,  beloved,"  she  whispered,  hiding 
her  rough  head  against  his  breast ;  then  she  tore  her- 
self away  with  a  little  laugh,  and  stood  before  him, 
shading  her  face  with  a  bunch  of  poppies.  "  Are  you 
sure  that  you  love  me  ? " 

With  one  quick  motion  he  clasped  her  to  his  heart, 
poppies  and  all. 

"  Why  do  you  ask,  my  torment  ?  " 

"  Because  Ae  "  (nodding  down  the  road)  "  says  he 


234  A   FREAK  OF  FATE. 

loves  me.  He  wants  to  buy  the  mill  and  the  miller's 
daughter,  and  he  is  rich — oh,  so  very  rich.  Every 
day  I  have  to  hide  from  him  and  father." 

"  Your  father  ?  and  we  betrothed  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father  favors  him,"  she  said,  with  a  troubled 
look  toward  the  mill. 

"  And  you,  Claude  ?  "  and  he  grasped  her  hands. 

"  Doubt  me,  Bertrand  ?  If  I  could  only  show  you 
how  true  I  am  ! "  Then  with  a  sigh,  "  If  you  were 
rich  you  might  buy  your  discharge,  and  then  we  could 
marry,  and  you  would  be  the  miller." 

"  And  if  not  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?  What  is  the  matter  ? "  she 
cried,  in  sudden  alarm,  clinging  to  his  arm. 

"  Nothing ;  nothing  shall  come  between  us  but 
death." 

"  Death  ?  Why  do  you  speak  of  death  ?  You  are 
well  and  strong,  and  God  is  good.  Bertrand,  Bert- 
rand, what  has  happened  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  fool !  "  he  cried.  "  Because  I  am  so  happy, 
I  fear  something  may  happen." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  twi- 
light that  was  creeping  over  the  valley,  the  mill,  and 
the  stream,  had  touched  her  sunny  face,  as  without 
a  word  but  with  a  wistful  look  at  Bertrand  she  led 
the  way  to  the  mill. 


TT  had  grown  so  dark  that  the  oil-lamps  twinkled 
->-  throughout  the  village.  In  the  huge  kitchen  of 
the  '^  Pot-au-feu  "  two  fiddles  and  a  trumpet  twanged 
and  tooted  a  rollicking  galop,  and  whatever  of  Plaileroi 
had  a  pair  of  sound  legs,  went  scampering  up  and 
down  the  bare  floor,  till  the  whole  village  was  in  a 
whirl,  from  the  fat  cook  with  a  huge  ladle  in  her  hand, 
to  Claude. 


A   FREAK  OF  FATE.  235 

It  seemed  to  Claude  as  if  the  world  were  spinning 
about,  so  did  Bertrand  whirl  her  up  and  down  to  the 
music. 

Plaileroi  balls  were  primitive  enough — the  world 
went  as  it  stood,  and  hardly  smoothed  its  hair,  and 
so  Chelot :  he  hadn't  even  taken  off  his  forage-bag. 

"  If  we, could  only  dance  forever !  "  and  faster,  faster 
he  went,  clasping  her  more  tightly,  knowing  that  it 
was,  perhaps,  his  last  dance. 

"  I  am  tired,  Bertrand." 

He  stood  still,  holding  her  hand  as  if  in  a  dream. 

Some  one  in  black  broadcloth,  and  with  a  withered 
bouquet  on  his  breast  looked  in  at  the  door,  over  the 
heated  crowd,  and  watched  the  two  jealously.  Chelot 
brushed  past  him  and  Claude  turned  her  face  away. 

So  they  went  through  the  porch  of  the  "  Pot-au- 
Feu"  into  the  garden.  The  crickets  chirped  and  the 
soft  breeze  touched  the  leaves  of  the  poplars  lining 
the  roadside.     • 

"  See ! — a  falling  star.  I  have  wished,"  Claude 
whispered. 

"  A  fine  dance,  Ma'm'selle.  To  last  a  year — eh, 
Monsieur } " 

Like  an  unpleasant  ghost  in  broadcloth,  he  stood 
beside  them,  with  his  tall  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head 
and  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

'*  Monsieur  Garbelle." 

"  Another  kind  of  dance  in  Mexico — eh.  Monsieur 
Chelot?" 

Claude  looked  up  at  M,  Garbelle  with  a  white  face. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Tell  me  !  Mexico — for 
God's  sake,  what  is  it  ?  " 

Chelot  turned  on  his  rival  in  a  quivering  rage,  and 
one  strong  hand  nearly  came  in  fatal  contact  with  the 
withered  nosegay  on  M.  Garbelle's  breast. 

"  Claude,  wait  till  I  tell  you,"  he  cried,  and  grasped 
her  hands  in  his. 


236  A  FREAK  OF  FATE. 

"  No,  now  ! " 

"  Monsieur  Chelot's  regiment  is  ordered  to  Mexico 
for  a  year.  Perhaps  Mademoiselle  don't  know  that 
there  is  a  war  in  Mexico  ?  It  is  a  wild  country,  far 
away,  and  M.  Chelot  will  have  to  cross  the  sea  before 
he  is  there.  The  big  sea — so  big,"  and  M.  Garbelle 
spread  out  his  lank  arms  to  give  an  adequate  idea  of 
the  ocean. 

"  Is  this  true  ? " 

"  It  is  true.  I  thought  we  might  be  happy  five  days 
more  in  this  world.  Forgive  me,  Claude,"  he  im- 
plored, looking  into  the  dull  misery  of  her  eyes. 

As  for  Monsieur  Garbelle,  having  succeeded  in  his 
little  plan,  he  slunk  away.  From  the  rambling  old 
tavern  the  shrill  fiddles  and  the  trumpet  struck  up  a 
new  tune,  that  floated  gayly  down  the  hill  after  them. 
But  the  old  charm  had  fled ;  it  was  all  discord.  With 
her  head  on  Bertrand's  breast,  Claude  was  weeping 
bitterly. 

It  was  high  noon  the  next  day.  The  miller  in  the 
kitchen  was  cutting  huge  junks  of  bread  from  a  long 
loaf  on  the  table,  washing  the  bites  down  with  coffee. 

Across  the  other  end  of  the  table  Chelot  had  flung 
his  forage-bag  the  night  before,  and  there  it  still  lay. 
The  miller,  with  a  scornful  laugh,  leaned  across  the 
table,  and  took  it  up,  and  out  dropped  a  crust  of  bread 
and  a  dirty  roll  of  newspaper. 

"  Not  much  to  bring  from  Paris,"  he  said,  with 
great  contempt.  He  knew  some  one — with  a  sly  look 
at  poor  Claude,  who  was  standing  listlessly  at  the 
window — who  at  least  would  bring  home  a  silk  gown 
from  such  a  journey. 

The  girl  paid  no  attention.  Her  father  was  talk- 
ing nonsense.  The  miller  was  a  weasel-faced  old 
man  in  a  smock-frock  and  a  nightcap.  He  had  am- 
bition, and  fortune  was  favoring  him.     He  rose  to 


A   FREAK  OF  FATE.  23/ 

leave  the  kitchen,  giving  a  parting  push  to  the  bag, 
when  Claude  turned  upon  him  suddenly. 

"  Father,  what  will  make  him  free  ?  " 

He  knew  what  she  meant,  without  explanation. 

"  Money — much  money." 

"  We  are  poor,  are  we  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  poor  as  rats,"  he  answered,  with  great  cheer- 
fulness, knowing  the  drift  of  her  thoughts. 

"  Where  he — Bertrand — is  going  is  a  wild  and  dan- 
gerous country  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  very  dangerous." 

"  He  may  never  come  back,"  she  murmured. 

"  Very  likely.  If  they  are  not  shot,  they  are  starv- 
ed." 

She  grew  so  deadly  pale  that  the  miller  was  alarmed. 

"  Can  no  one  save  him  ?  "  she  cried,  wringing  her 
hands.     "  Oh,  for  a  little  money  !  " 

"  Monsieur  Garbelle,"  he  suggested. 

"  Do  you  think  he  would  lend  us  some  ? " 

"  Not  for  nothing,"  and  he  scratched  his  head. 
"But  I'll  send  him  to  make  his  own  terms.  He's 
always  about  the  mill  nowadays,"  and  the  miller  tried 
to  suggest  a  shattered  existence,  and  shuffled  out  of 
the  kitchen, 

M.  Garbelle  was  there,  and  came  sneaking  in, 
doubtful  of  his  reception.  He  was  not  an  inviting- 
looking  object,  covered  with  a  thin  layer  of  flour,  from 
too  much  prowling  about  the  mill. 

Claude  sat  with  her  back  to  him,  her  head  on  the 
table  against  Bertrand's  bag.  She  looked  up  as  he 
stood  beside  her.  It  was  a  new  look  to  Garbelle, 
and  he  liked  it.     She  was  wonderfully  handsome. 

"  Ma'm'selle,  you  want  money  ?  I  have  it,  and  I 
will  give  you  what  you  want,  if — " 

She  looked  at  him  breathlessly. 

"  Well,  M.  Garbelle  ?  " 

"  If  you  will  marry  me." 


238  A   FREAK  OF  FATE. 


VI. 

POOR  Chelot  went  away  in  the  early  dawn,  and 
came  back  with  a  heavy  heart.  He  had  been  to 
all  the  Chelots  to  borrow  money.  It  was  a  wild  en- 
deavor. They  shrugged  their  shoulders,  and  declared 
that  men  were  cheap  and  money  dear.  So  he  returned 
to  Plaileroi  at  twilight,  with  empty  hands  and  quite 
hopeless. 

He  looked  up  drearily,  for  some  one  called  to  him 
from  the  "  Pot-au-Feu."  It  was  M.  le  Maire,  waving 
a  letter.  The  "  Pot-au-Feu  "  and  the  post  office  were 
one  in  primitive  Plaileroi. 

A  letter  for  him — Chelot !  The  miracle  did  not 
happen  once  a  year,  and  so  he  turned  it  in  all  direc- 
tions in  his  perplexity. 

"It  was  left  for  you  an  hour  ago.  For  heaven's 
sake,  open  it,  man  !  "  the  mayor  suggested,  with  some 
irritation.     He  was  dying  of  curiosity. 

It  was  a  soft  letter  with  a  downhill  direction  in  one 
corner ;  a  pleasant  letter,  M.  le  Maire  concluded,  for, 
after  a  second  of  bewildered  delight  Chelot  leaped 
in  the  air,  seized  M.  le  Maire  and  hugged  him  pas- 
sionately." 

"  Free,  free,  free  !  "  and  he  shook  three  one-hundred- 
franc  bills  in  his  face.  There  was  a  bit  of  paper 
inclosed,  on  which  was  written,  in  crabbed  writing, 
"  From  a  faithful  friend." 

"  God  is  so  good  !  "  and  a  film  dimmed  his  eyes, 
and  his  lips  quivered  under  his  brown  mustache. 

Then,  with  a  laugh,  he  swung  his  cap  in  the  air 
and  sprang  downhill.  He  had  escaped  a  great  dan- 
ger, and,  in  his  sudden  joy,  he  never  once  thought  of 
the  cause. 

Free  1  and  Claude  his  forever  ! 


A   FREAK  OF  FATE.  239 

Monsieur  Garbelle  was  crossing  the  bridge ;  he 
looked  up  at  the  other's  radiant  face  with  a  frown. 
But  Chelot  did  not  care ;  in  his  great  happiness  he 
was  willing  to  love  even  his  rival. 

"I  am  free,  M.  Garbelle.  See,  all  this  money  is 
mine  !  "  and  he  thrust  it  into  the  other's  face. 

"  Have  you  received  it  already  ?  "  and  M.  Garbelle 
retreated  to  the  moss-grown  stone  railing. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?     Who  sent  it  ?  " 

M.  Garbelle  had  had  an  unpleasant  courting,  and 
an  expensive,  so  he  needed  something  to  soothe  his 
soul. 

"Ha!  ha!  It  is  a  little  bargain  :  Ma'm'selle  Claude 
accepts  three  hundred  francs  from  me,  and  I  take 
Ma'm'selle  Claude." 

"  Sold  herself  for  me  !  "  Bertrand  thought  over  and 
over  again,  as  if  he  could  not  grasp  the  idea.  How- 
ever, there  stood  M.  Garbelle,  grinning,  until  with 
one  hand  the  young  man  grasped  his  broadcloth  col- 
lar, and  with  the  other  stuffed  the  bank-bills  into  M. 
Garbelle's  pocket,  and  then,  with  a  vigorous  kick, 
sent  him  staggering  uphill. 

"The  debt  is  repaid,  M.  Garbelle,"  he  said,  and, 
turning  his  back  on  him,  went  towards  the  mill. 

That  whole  afternoon  the  miller  had  been  happy 
in  his  chosen  son-in-law — M.  Garbelle.  As  for  Claude, 
she  said  nothing  but  she  worked  with  feverish  activity. 

After  M.  Garbelle  had  given  her  the  money  he  tried 
to  reward  himself  by  clasping  her  arm  with  one  bony 
hand,  but  she  shook  him  off  like  a  spider. 

At  dusk  she  sat  down  by  the  open  hearth,  shiver- 
ing in  the  fire-light,  and  the  miller  put  on  a  fresh  log 
and  the  flames  went  blazing  and  crackling  up  the 
chimney. 

She  was  still  sitting  there  when  Bertrand  came  in. 
For  a  moment  they  looked  silently  and  sorrowfully 
at  each  other. 


240  A   FREAK  OF  FATE. 

"  Claude,"  he  said,  at  last,  drawing  her  towards  him, 
"I  shall  come  back  to  you  again — I  swear  I  shall. 
The  price  you  paid  for  my  life  was  too  dear — I — I  have 
given  the  money  back.  Have  patience,  my  darling, 
for  a  year — onlv  a  year." 

She  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder  and  wept,  but 
something  of  peace  touched  her  heart.  God  only 
knew  how  patient  she  would  be !  It  grew  darker, 
and  the  fire-light  cast  red  shadows  across  the  floor; 
a  yellow  glimmer  pierced  through  a  crack  in  the  door. 

It  was  the  miller  who  came  in  holding  a  lamp,  fol- 
lowed by  M.  le  Maire,  longing  to  know  what  the  let- 
ter and  the  money  were  about. 

The  miller  caught  sight  of  Bertrand. 

"  You  here  again  }  "  he  asked,  with  much  disfavor. 
He  would  have  said  more,  but  he  was  afraid  of 
Claude.  M.  le  Maire  pricked  up  his  sharp  ears,  but 
he  was  also  a  Frenchman,  and  polite,  and  he  had  no 
interest  in  family  skirmishes. 

There  was  an  ominous  silence,  and  M.  le  Maire, 
sitting  down  by  the  table,  stretched  out  his  fat  hands 
to  a  ragged  newspaper  parcel,  lying  beside  a  forage-bag 
and  a  crust  of  bread.  Anything  to  break  the  dead 
silence. 

"  Tiens  /  A  paper  from  Paris  !  "  and,  without  a 
moment's  hesitation,  M.  le  Maire  began  to  unroll  it 
with  nimble  fingers. 

"  It  is  the  only  thing  Chelot  brought  from  Paris," 
the  miller  said,  with  much  scorn,  while  he  filled  a 
couple  of  pipes,  and  dived  into  the  recesses  of  a  huge 
carven  chest  for  a  bottle  of  wine,  for  M.  le  Maire  was 
an  honored  guest. 

"  In  the  name  of  heaven,  what's  this  ?  " 

Only  to  hear  M.  le  Maire,  it  was  no  wonder  that 
the  miller  leaped  to  his  feet,  and  dropped  the  bottle 

with  a  crash.     He  wasn't  dreaming,  but money  ? 

The  table  was  covered  with  it,  and  the  ragged  paper 


A   FREAK  OF  FATE.  24 1 

that  Bertrand  had  brought  from  Paris,  was  bursting 
with  more.  It  strewed  the  table  and  fell  on  the 
ground,  and  the  numbers  on  the  bills  were  fabulous. 
Between  all  stood  M.  le  Maire,  open-mouthed,  petri- 
fied, and  pointing  a  fat  forefinger  at  Bertrand. 

For  a  second  Chelot  was  bewildered  ;  then  a  sud- 
den light  dawned  upon  him. 

"  To  be  sure — yes,  I  remember !  Jean  Pierre  thrust 
it  in  my  bag  yesterday,  as  I  left  Paris.  He  and 
Duval  were  kicking  it  about  till  Jean  Pierre  dropped 
it  in  there,"  pointing  to  the  bag,  "  I  suppose  some  one 
lost  it,"  Bertrand  added,  indifferently. 

It  seemed  like  a  nineteenth  century  fairy-tale,  as 
they  stood  about  M.  le  Maire,  while  he  counted  the 
bills  with  a  moist  forefinger.  The  miller  watched 
each  motion  with  open-mouthed  wonder.  After  the 
first  few  thousands,  his  ears  were  dulled,  he  could 
comprehend  no  more ;  while  Claude  thought  of  the 
happiness  such  a  bit  of  paper  could  give  her  and  hers. 

She  turned  to  the  window,  and  looked  into  the 
darkness  till  the  last  bill  was  counted  and  the  whole 
was  safely  tucked  into  an  inside  pocket  of  M.  le 
Maire's  waistcoat. 

Bertrand  looked  on  with  calm  indifference. 

"  If  we  had  all  that  money,"  she  whispered,  laying 
her  hand  on  his  arm. 

Something  of  his  old  bright  smile  came  back  as  he 
stroked  his  mustache  and  looked  down  at  her. 

"  But  we  haven't,"  he  answered,  lightly,  and  that 
was  all. 

"Five  hundred  thousand  francs.  Some  one  has 
lost  half  a  million,"  M.  le  Maire  said,  impressively. 
"  Whoever  it  is,  will  cry  loud  enough  to  be  heard.  If 
it  hadn't  been  for  me,  that  money  would  have  lain 
there  till  doomsday.  What  would  you  do  without 
me — just  tell  me  ?  I  shall  ride  to  Merle  to-night, 
and  telegraph  to  the  chief  of  police  in  Paris.  As 
16 


242  A  FREAK  OF   FATE. 

for  you,  Chelot,  the  money  is  yours  till  the  owner 
appears ;  so  you  must  sleep  at  the  inn  to-night.  I 
shouldn't  like  all  the  world  to  know  what's  hidden  in 
the  '  Pot-au-Feu.'  Come,  Chelot !  You,  miller,  bring 
a  lantern.     Good-night,  Ma'm'selle  Claude." 

The  miller  accompanied  the  two  to  the  inn.  To 
say  that  M.  le  Maire  was  excited  was  to  say  nothing. 
He  was  magnificent! 

"  Legends,"  he  declared,  as  he  harnessed  his  fat 
horse  to  a  square  box  on  four  wheels, — "  legend? 
will  be  handed  down  about  that  money,  Chelot,  my 

boy  ;  and  you,  miller,  won't  be  forgotten.    But  I " 

and  M.  le  Maire  paused  a  second  and  laid  his  forefin- 
ger against  his  nose,    "  I — oh — I " 

Language  failed  to  provide  him  with  words  suffi 
ciently  eulogistic,  and,  like  other  artists  under  equally 
impressive  circumstances,  M.  le  Maire  remained  silent. 


VII. 

MLE  MAIRE  was  still  snoring  placidly  in  the 
•  early  morning,  when  a  coach  tore  down  the 
highway  and  pulled  up,  with  a  sweep,  at  the  "  Pot- 
au-Feu." 

He  sat  up  in  bed  and  rubbed  his  heavy  eyes,  when 
a  thundering  knock  sent  him  to  the  window  like  a 
shot. 

Two  men  stood  below;  one  looked  up  with  a  stern, 
official  eye. 

"I  am  a  police  commissary ;  this  gentleman  " — 
pointing  to  his  companion  —  "has  lost  a  package 
containing  a  large  sum  of  money  that  answers  the 
description  of  the  one  you  found.     Let  us  in  !  " 

For  a  second  M.  le  Maire  stared  at  the  happy  pos- 
sessor of  so  much  money,  though  he  wasn't  much  to 
look  at.     Of  course  it  was  Monsieur  Bertholet  ;  but 


A  FREAK  OF  FATE.  243 

after  a  day  of  unspeakable  misery  and  an  early  jour- 
ney, a  pea-green  haze  covered  his  features  ;  but  with 
the  last  remnants  of  energy  he  pulled  down  his  cuffs. 
He  trembled  with  joy  and  eagerness,  and  M.  le 
Maire,  enveloped  in  a  mysterious,  long  garment, 
had  hardly  unbarred  the  door  before  M.  Bertholet 
fell  about  his  neck. 

"  My  preserver  1 " 

"  No,  not  exactly." 

"  Well,  then,  who  is  he  ?  Where  is  he  ?  Let  me 
see  him  ! " 

"  He  is  in  bed  ;  I'll  send  him  down  directly." 

That  did  not  satisfy  M.  Bertholet's  grateful  impa- 
tience. He  followed  M.  le  Maire's  fluttering  gar- 
ments down  the  winding  corridors,  and  burst  into  a 
small  room  where  Bertrand,  dreaming  of  Mexico  with 
the  magnificent  fantasy  of  a  Frenchman,  suddenly 
awoke  to  find  a  queer  old  man  sitting  at  his  bedside, 
clasping  his  hand, — a  strange  old  man,  with  wisps  of 
thin,  green  hair,  and  a  limp  but  generous  display  of 
linen. 

"You  shall  have  the  reward,  twenty  thousand 
francs  !  "  cried  Bertholet,  over  and  over. 

"  He  is  mad  !  "  Chelot  thought,  and  shuddered.       f 

*'  Day  before  yesterday  I  lost  the  money  in  the 
railway  station  in  Paris.  In  Calais  they  said  I  was 
mad,  and  sent  me  to  Paris  by  the  next  train,  with  two 
keepers." 

Chelot  watched  him,  horror  struck. 

"  I  remember,  I  saw  you  at  the  station,  my  fine  fel- 
low ;  I'll  make  your  fortune." 

A  light  dawned  on  Chelot. 

"  I'm  the  owner  of  the  five  hundred  thousand 
francs,"  M.  Bertholet  explained. 

"And  you  are  not  mad  ?  "  Chelot  asked,  still  doubt- 
ing M.  Bertholet's  feverish  joy. 

M.  Bertholet  mad  ?     He  was  mad  the  night  he 


244  A  FREAK  OF  FATE. 

had  been  left  to  recover  his  reason  at  leisure  in  a 
police  cell,  after  a  forced  journey  back  to  Paris,  with 
two  keepers  and  a  pair  of  handcuffs.  He  was  mad 
the  next  morning,  when  Madame  and  "  the  little 
one "  came,  each  in  turn,  and  overwhelmed  him 
with  reproaches.  But  mad  now  ?  No,  he  was  com- 
ing to  himself ;  he  had  learned  a  lesson.  Madame 
was  nothing  without  him,  and  "  the  little  one  "  less 
than  nothing. 

Experience  has  been  an  extravagant  luxury  ever 
since  Mother  Eve  ate  an  apple  and  lost  Paradise.  It 
cost  M.  Bertholet  twenty  thousand  francs. 

It  was  a  great  day  for  Plaileroi  and  the  "  Pot-au- 
Feu."  Bertholet  sat  beside  M.  le  Maire  in  the  great 
kitchen,  and  watched  him  brew  wonderful  drinks.  All 
Plaileroi  came  and  stared  at  the  rich  man,  who  had 
lost  a  fortune  in  Paris  and  found  it  in  Plaileroi. 
They  drank  to  his  health  and  to  M.  le  Maire's,  and 
stared  again  when  they  heard  that  he  had  given  the 
miller's  Claude  a  dowry  of  twenty  thousand  francs, 
and  remembered  M.  le  Maire  handsomely. 

Chelot  would  accept  nothing,  even  when  he  was 
told  that  twenty  thousand  francs  was  the  advertised 
reward.  However,  after  a  moment's  consultation  with 
the  host  of  the  "  Pot-au-Feu,"  Claude  was  transformed 
into  an  heiress  by  the  mere  scratch  of  M.  Bertholet's 
pen. 

"  It's  all  one,"  M.  le  Maire  said  in  explanation, 
as  Claude  came  shyly  into  the  room,  followed  by 
Bertrand. 

"Am  I  mad  ?  "  M.  Bertholet  asked  the  young  man, 
and  patted  Claude's  blushing  face.  It  was  an  expen- 
sive pat.  It  was  all  he  had  seen  of  "  life,"  and  it 
cost  a  pile  of  money.  Still  he  did  not  care,  though 
he  watched  them  rather  enviously  when  the  fiddlers 
arrived,  and  in  a  trivet  set  Plaileroi  scampering  and 
spinning  down  the  long  kitchen. 


A   FREAK  OF  FATE.  245 

"  They  have  the  best  of  it,"  he  thought,  catching 
sudden  glimpses  of  a  laughing  face,  the  glitter  of 
white  teeth,  and  Bertrand's  brown  mustache  in  dan- 
gerous proximity. 

Grandeur  begets  solitude,  and  M.  Bertholet  pulled 
down  his  cuffs,  rasped  his  throat,  and  wished  M.  le 
Maire  to  the  devil. 

"  Will  Monsieur  dance  with  me  ? "  asked  a  shy 
voice,  and  Claude  stood  before  him,  blushing. 

Would  he  ?     Good  heavens,  yes  ! 

He  leaped  to  his  feet,  pulled  down  his  cuffs,  the 
fiddles  struck  up  a  new  tune,  and,  after  thirty  years 
of  inaction,  M.  Bertholet's  feet  cracked  their  old 
muscles  to  the  tune  of  a  dance,  and  M.  Bertholet's 
elbows  forced  a  way  through  the  population  of  Plaile- 
roi  with  superb  effect.     In  the  midst  of  it — 

"  Mon  mart  !  "  said  a  familiar  voice. 

M.  Bertholet  thought  he  was  dreaming,  and  danced 
on. 

^^ Mon  mart/"  said  the  voice  again,  plaintively. 

He  stopped  as  if  he  had  been  shot.  There  stood 
Madame  at  the  open  door,  travel-stained  and  humble. 

"  My  friend,  I  heard  that  you  were  here,  and  so  I 
followed  you." 

"  And  now  you  can  go  home  again,"  M.  Bertholet 
interposed,  politely,  and,  taking  her  by  one  fat  elbow, 
he  led  her  through  the  garden  to  the  vehicle  in  which 
she  had  come. 

"  Will  you  not  come  home  with  me,  my  friend  ?  " 

"  Not  till  I  choose,  my  dear,"  he  answered,  shut- 
ting her  into  the  coach. 

"  Perhaps  you  haven't  heard  the  news,"  she  said, 
spitefully,  looking  out  of  the  window.  "  Our  little 
one   is  married." 

"Then  I  pity  him,"  M.  Bertholet  replied,  with 
much  feeling. 

"She's   a  dancer  —  a  ballet  dancer!"    Madame 


246  A  FREAK  OF  FATE. 

screamed,  as  the  coachman,  with  a  crack  of  his  whip, 
started  his  lank  beasts  toward  Merle. 

It  was  sinful  and  not  fatherly,  but  he  laughed  till 
he  ached  ;  he  was  still  laughing  when  he  reached  the 
"  Pot-au-Feu,"  and  the  merry  tune  of  a  dance  tickled 
his  ears. 

**  Now,"  said  M.  Bertholet,  and  he  pulled  his  cuffs 
down  for  the  last  time  in  this  story, — "  now  I  shall 
begin  to  live.  Madame  is  crushed,  and  '  the  little 
one  '  is — ha  !  ha !  married." 

The  fiddles  twanged  and  the  trumpet  tooted,  and 
M.  Bertholet  and  all  Plaileroi  whirled  about  in  the 
kitchen  of  the  "  Pot-au-Feu." 


MONSIEUR  PAMPALON'S  REPENT- 
ANCE. 

I. 

MONSIEUR  PAMPALON  had  no  care :  that  was 
the  trouble — a  solitary  case  in  the  world,  I'm 
afraid. 

He  would  go  out  of  his  way  to  make  himself  miser- 
able, and  finding  everything  as  it  should  be,  he  grum- 
bled because  he  had  nothing  to  grumble  about. 

Monsieur  had  been  in  the  confectionery  business  on 
the  most  magnificent  scale — so  unlimited  that  it  em- 
braced all  the  varieties  of  dainty  boxes  and  bags  and 
flowers  and  fancy  papers  with  which  Parisian  candy 
is  decorated,  to  tempt  a  morally  weak  world.  Being 
candies,  you  would  naturally  imagine  a  dainty  little 
shop,  at  whose  contents  you  could  gaze  with  varied 
emotions  and  then  buy  a  franc's  worth.  Don't  flat- 
ter yourself ;  you  could  never  buy  a  franc's  worth, — 
the  business  was  wholesale,  fearfully  wholesale. 

Monsieur's  warehouses  stood  in  the  midst  of  Old 
Paris.  They  were  reached  through  a  labyrinth  of  nar- 
row streets,  above  which  the  tall  houses  towered  in  a 
fashion  that  kept  out  very  much  sunlight  and  all  fresh 
air.  You  crossed  a  small  courtyard,  and  then  you  were 
irrevocably  lost  unless  some  one  came  to  your  aid ; 
for  the  three  small  doors  that  opened  into  the  court- 
yard, and  the  tall,  narrow  windows,  with  their  iron 
shutters,  were  all  deserted.  So  you  wandered  in  at 
the  first  door  like  a  stray  sheep,  and  meandered  among 

(247) 


248    MONSIEUR  PAMPALON'S  REPENTANCE. 

a  wilderness  of  pasteboard  boxes  until,  fate  propitious, 
you  were  rescued  by  a  gentleman  in  a  paper  cap  and 
white  garments,  who  would  politely  give  you  the  clew 
to  the  labyrinth,  and  lead  you  to  M.  Pampalon's 
presence  in  a  dim  counting-room,  very  dusty  and  very 
full  of  samples  of  candy  and  fly-speckled  flowers  of 
some  bygone  fashion, 

M.  Pampalon  was  very  short  and  very  fat,  with  a 
large,  smoothly-shaven  face  surmounted  by  a  thick 
crop  of  stiff  gray  hair.  First  you  would  notice  his  ears, 
and  then  his  gray  eyes,  with  their  heavy,  melancholy 
lids.  The  nose  was  blunt  and  large,  and  the  mouth, 
with  drooping  corners,  was  moved  by  the  same  machin- 
ery as  the  melancholy  eyelids. 

M.  Pampalon  was  born  with  a  natural  pity  for  him 
self,  in  which  he  was  quite  unjustified.  As  a  boy  he 
was  affected  to  tears  by  his  virtuous  school-record ; 
at  the  age  of  fifty  his  eyes  would  grow  dim  as  he  gave 
a  sou  to  a  cripple,  not  owing  to  his  sorrow  at  misfor- 
tune, but  because  he  was  moved  at  his  own  philan- 
thropy. He  had,  besides,  a  strong  tendency  to  look 
at  the  dark  side  of  life,  in  which,  again,  he  was  not 
justified,  for  if  ever  a  man  was  controlled  by  the  most 
blind  and  stupid  of  good  luck,  Pampalon  was  that  man. 
So  true  was  this,  that  a  saying  went  about  among  his 
neighbors,  "  La  chance  h.  Pampalon,"  in  which  every- 
body agreed  but  himself. 

Madame  Pampalon  was  short  and  broad,  like  her 
husband.  While  his,  however,  was  a  flabby  stout- 
ness, hers  was  good  and  solid,  and  there  was  not  a 
fraction  of  nielancholy  in  her  bright  black  eyes. 
Madame  had  been  a  pretty  shop-girl  before  she  be- 
came monsieur's  wife,  and  her  loyal  soul  never  forgot 
that  he  had  raised  her  from  that  condition  to  be  the 
ruler  of  a  most  desirable  country  mansion  within  two 
miles  of  Paris. 

On  Saturday  afternoons,  about  three  o'clock,  ma- 


MONSIEUR   PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE.    249 

dame  appeared  at  the  warerooms,  gorgeous  in  her 
finest  attire,  followed  by  Dodd,  who  cast  down  her 
brown  eyes  and  blushed  crimson,  whenever  a  stray 
clerk  made  his  appearance.  There  was  a  curious 
sympathy  between  father  and  daughter.  M.  Pampa- 
lon  rarely  surprised  this  young  philosopher,  and  though 
he  was  affectionate  by  spasms,  Dod6  was  always  ready 
to  meet  him  halfway.  Though  she  loyally  defended 
her  mother,  when  family  skirmishes  obliged  her  to 
give  up  neutrality,  still  in  her  heart  she  felt  for  her 
father  and  praised  him  and  spoilt  him,  setting  him  up 
for  a  stubby,  wayward,  outwardly  unattractive  idol, 
which  she  worshiped  blindly.  These  were  the  two 
kind  fairies  who  rescued  M.  Pampalon  from  his  sugar- 
coated  chains,  and  bore  him  off,  melancholy  but  re- 
signed, to  the  desirable  country  mansion. 

Monsieur  Pampalon  was  no  silent  martyr.  A  faith- 
ful audience  of  two  admired  and  pitied  him,  and 
would  have  henpecked  in  the  usual  innocent,  feminine 
fashion,  had  not  this  husband  and  father,  in  the  midst 
of  their  cooing,  always  said  to  himself,  "  Why  do  they 
pity  me  ?  I  know  I  suffer,  I  know  that  I  am  miserable, 
but  there's  something  back  of  this :  they're  too  ten- 
der by  half.     I'll  watch." 

By  which  will  be  seen  that  the  good  man  was  a  hyp- 
ochondriac of  the  deepest  dye.  There  was,  too,  a 
fiction  in  his  mind  of  the  fearful  sacrifices  he  was  mak- 
ing for  his  family.  No  man,  he  declared,  slaved  as 
he  did  ;  he  used  to  cast  it  at  his  wife  and  daughter,  as 
if  to  bid  these  unfeeling  tyrants  reflect  before  they 
goaded  him  too  far.  So,  of  an  evening  he  would  come 
up  from  Paris  on  the  top  of  the  omnibus,  smoking  a 
cigar  and  talking  politics  with  a  chance  neighbor, 
quite  forgetful  of  his  griefs  tilH  coming  in  sight  of  the 
desirable  country  mansion,  he  suddenly  returned  to 
his  normal  condition,  and  appeared  crushed  and  care- 
worn. 


250   MONSIEUR   PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE. 

Among  other  peculiarities,  M.  Pampalon  reveled 
in  the  prospect  of  old  age,  and  he  had  a  way  of  hint- 
ing at  his  years  which  made  Methuselah  a  rollicking 
young  blade  in  comparison.  That  he  was  a  devoted 
patriot  was  a  matter  of  course.  He  read  all  the  news- 
papers, beginning  with  the  advertisements.  During 
the  siege  of  Paris  he  had  threatened  to  enlist,  and  had 
gone  so  far  as  to  describe  to  his  harrowed  listeners, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  how  he  would  like  to  be  buried 
should  he  fall  for  his  country.  But  he  never  enlisted. 
However,  these  sentiments  gave  him  a  right  to  grow 
eloquent  on  the  duties  of  a  patriot.  It  was  terrible 
to  hear  him  hold  forth  after  dinner  over  a  cigar  and 
a  cup  of  coffee,  and  madame  was  heartily  glad  that  a 
man  of  such  reckless  courage  should  not  be  in  the 
midst  of  carnage. 

Said  M.  Pampalon  to  madame  one  evening,  as  they 
sat  on  the  veranda,  and  monsieur  was  gloomily  heap- 
ing up  a  pile  of  that  day's  miseries  :  "  I  am  growing 
old.  There  comes  a  time  after  a  man  has  worked 
like  a  cart-horse  " — with  a  faltering  voice  and  a  look 
of  silent  reproof  at  this  wife — "  when  he,  too,  would 
like  to  enjoy  something  of  life." 

"  Well,  papa  " — she  always  called  him  papa — "  why 
don't  you  sell  the  business  ?  " 

"  *  Sell  the  business  ! '  "  monsieur  echoed  with  much 
contempt.  "  Much  you  women  know  !  Sell  it  .>'  Who'd 
buy  it  in  such  times .?  No,  there's  no  hope  for  me.  I 
shall  have  to  grind  and  wear  my  life  out  in  the  usual 
way.    Had  you  been  economical — " 

"Papa!  papa!"  madame  interrupted,  with  good- 
natured  decision,  "  we  are  economical  enough." 

"  Dear  little  papa !  "  and  a  soft  small  hand  caught 
him  right  under  his  fafechin,  "do  sell  that  tiresome 
business." 

"  Dod6,  be  quiet !  You're  too  young  to  give  ad- 
vice." 


MONSIEUR   PAMPALON'S  REPENTANCE.    2$  I 

Dodd — whose  real  name  was  Rose — retired  into  a 
corner  and  pouted,  but  after  a  moment,  a  feeling  of 
her  extreme  age  came  to  her  rescue — a  trait  inher- 
ited from  her  father — "  After  all,  I'm  eighteen,"  she 
thought,  triumphantly.  "  When  a  person's  eighteen 
it  doesn't  take  very  long  to  grow  old."  Which  is  a 
lamentable  fact. 

Pampalon's  blind  luck  following  him,  he  came  from 
Paris  one  day  and  told  his  wife,  in  the  deepest  dejec- 
tion, that  he  had  an  offer  for  the  business.  He  de- 
clared that  he  was  breaking  down,  and  he  considered 
it  his  duty  to  preserve  himself  to  them.  However,  he 
did  not  mention  that  the  offer  was  so  brilliant  that  it 
was  a  subject  of  nine  days'  wonder  among  his  busi- 
ness friends.  Madame  and  Dod6  having  been  called 
upon  to  admire  such  self-sacrifice,  Monsieur  Pampa- 
lon  further  announced  that  he  meant  to  devote  the  rest 
of  his  existence  to  peaceful  agricultural  pursuits. 


II. 

M  PAMPALON'S  desirable  country-seat  was 
•  situated  in  Ligny,  that  charming  suburb  of 
Paris  where  Arcadian  bliss  is  tuned  to  the  keynote 
of  Parisian  bourgeois  luxury  —  where  the  honest 
French  republican  turns  his  back  on  the  city  and 
lives  in  the  contemplation  of  ripening  apricots. 

Perhaps  there  was  a  sameness  in  the  houses,  which 
were  mostly  of  a  chocolate  color,  with  a  mansard  roof, 
a  veranda  in  front,  and  under  the  veranda  a  hammock. 
Each  house  stood  in  the  center  of  a  little  garden,  whose 
flowers  thrust  their  inquisitive  heads  out  of  the  fence 
palings  and  became  pale  with  the  dust  of  the  high- 
way, where  the  omnibus  rattled  by  every  hour,  kindly 
leaving  each  resident  at  his  own  door. 

The  Pampalons  were  at  breakfast.     The  dining- 


252    MONSIEUR   PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE. 

room  was  not  large,  but  two  low  windows  opened  on 
the  veranda,  and  let  in  the  concentrated  freshness 
and  fragrance  of  a  summer's  morning.  It  was  already 
quite  late,  for  M.  Pampalon,  in  spite  of  his  agricultu- 
ral pursuits,  had  overslept  himself.  He  was  reading 
the  morning  paper,  and  had  just  emerged  out  of  its 
depths  to  ask  for  a  second  cup  of  coffee  from  madame, 
who  sat,  smooth  and  dark  and  neat,  behind  the  cof- 
fee urn. 

Monsieur  was  cross,  and  he  eyed  his  wife  with  a 
great  deal  of  slumbering  conjugal  wrath.  "  There, 
now !  you're  putting  too  much  water  in  the  coffee," 
he  exclaimed,  peevishly.  "  You  know  I  hate  dish- 
water, and  I  won't  drink  it." 

"  Papa,  you  are  growing  near-sighted,"  madame 
answered,  unmoved,  "  don't  you  see  this  is  milk  ?  " 

"  It's  all  the  same,"  monsieur  muttered,  foiled. 

"  If  it  is  all  the  same,  we  had  better  buy  a  pump 
instead  of  a  cow — it's  much  cheaper,"  madame  re- 
plied calmly,  as  her  husband  growled  himself  back 
into  his  paper,  while  Dodd,  who  sat  between  them, 
smothered  an  untimely  laugh. 

There  is  no  knowing  what  monsieur  might  have 
done  at  such  a  lack  of  feeling  in  his  daughter,  if  he 
had  not  started  up,  in  sudden  excitement,  "  Madame, 
command  yourself ! " 

"  In  Heaven's  name,  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  she 
cried  in  consternation. 

"  The  matter  is,"  monsieur  began  with  exasperat- 
ing slowness — "  the  matter  is  that  we  are  beggars  : 
the  Russian  National  Railway  bonds,  in  which  1  have 
invested  the  greater  part  of  my  money,  have  fallen  to 
absolutely  nothing.  I  told  you  so  !  I  knew  how  it 
would  end  !"  monsieur  cried  with  a  great  groan,  and 
again  groped  his  distracted  way  to  the  alarming  piece 
of  news.    All  at  once  there  succeeded  an  embarrassed 


MONSIEUR   PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE.    253 

pause,  and  monsieur  raised  his  paper  and  coughed 
apologetically. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  made  a  mistake?  "  madame 
said  with  some  iciness,  for  she  knew  her  husband's 
familiar  ways. 

"  The  fact  is,  my  dear,"  monsieur  said,  quite  sub- 
dued, "  I  read  '  Russian  National  Railway  bonds,' 
and,  looking  to  see  their  value,  I  accidentally  followed 
the  wrong  line." 

Madame  rose  and  went  toward  the  window :  she 
bad  lost  her  appetite  for  breakfast.  Mademoiselle 
Dode  played  with  her  coffee  cup,  but  had  her  young 
ears  unconsciously  very  wide  open,  for,  hearing  a  faint 
sound  in  the  distance,  she  cried,  "  The  coach  is  com- 
ing ! "  and  ran  to  the  window. 

The  family  Pampalon,  reunited  by  a  common  ex- 
citement, buried  the  hatchet  and  stood  on  the  veranda 
to  see  the  omnibus  pass.  Instead  of  galloping  on 
as  it  had  done  ever  since  M.  Pampalon  retired  from 
business,  it  stopped  before  the  gate.  There  was  a 
letting  down  of  steps,  a  banging  of  doors,  and  the 
creak  of  a  gravel  walk  ;  then  a  jovial  voice  cried  to 
M.  Pampalon,  in  execrable  French,  "  How  are  you, 
old  fellow  ?  "  the  question  being  followed  by  a  vigor- 
ous slap  on  the  shoulder  which  made  the  wretched 
victim  jump. 

"  Karl !  "  Monsieur  Pampalon  faltered,  "  why — " 

"  Surprised,  are  you  ?  "  Karl  said,  unconcernedly. 
"  Didn't  you  get  my  letter  ?  Sent  it  to  your  office — 
said  I  was  coming,  and  meant  to  bring  the  captain 
instead  of  my  wife. — My  son,  the  captain — family 
Pampalon.  Now,  that's  settled.  Where's  Rose  ? 
Why  do  you  call  her  Dod^  ?  — .vile  name,  Dode  1 
Ah,  ha  I  gone,  has  she  ?  I  know  why ;  she  had  her 
hair  in  curl  papers.  So  you  didn't  get  my  letter  ? 
Queer  !  queer  !     Sent  it  to  your  office." 

The  captain^made  a  military  salute,  while  M.  Pam- 


254    MONSIEUR  PAMPALON'S  REPENTANCE. 

palon  stared  at  them  both  in  speechless  consternation. 
Madame,  being  the  first  to  recover,  held  out  a  very 
pretty  hand  to  her  unexpected  guests.  "You  know 
that  you  are  always  welcome,  and  how  much  more 
after  so  many  years  !  And  this  is  your  son  ?  Albert, 
is  it  not  ? — I  am  glad  to  see  you,  not  only  for  your 
father's  sake,  but  for  your  own,"  she  said  kindly  to 
the  young  man,  who  stood  aside,  evidently  greatly 
embarrassed  at  finding  their  visit  so  unexpected. 

There  was  no  need  to  say  that  they  had  come  from 
Berlin;  it  was  enough  to  see  them,  enough  to  hear 
the  old  president  murder  the  French  language. 

Officially,  the  president  was  the  chief  magistrate  of 
a  Prussian  criminal  court ;  privately  he  was  under 
subjection  to  a  very  decided  little  wife,  in  spite  of 
whom  he  enjoyed  hugely  all  such  chance  pleasures  as 
came  in  his  way. 

The  captain  was  a  newer,  handsomer  edition  of  his 
father — a  great  broad  shouldered  fellow  with  a  fine 
head,  kind  blue  eyes,  and  in  his  buttonhole  the  ribbon 
of  the   Iron  Cross. 

Extremes  will  meet.  M.  Pampalon  had  met  the 
president  in  Germany  while  there  on  business. 
Strange  to  say,  they  had  taken  a  fancy  to  each  other, 
and  in  the  course  of  long  intervals  M.  Pampalon 
would  drop  in  at  Berlin,  and  the  president  would  sur- 
prise the  Pampalon  family  at  Ligny. 

**  Glad  to  see  me,  old  boy  ?  And  you  mean  to  say 
that  you  never  got  my  letter  ? "  the  president  cried 
cheerfully,  slapping  his  host  on  the  knee. 

"  It  seems  you  don't  know,  Karl,  that  I  am  out  of 
business,"  M.  Pampalon  answered,  making  a  desper- 
ate effort  to  raise  his  spirits.  "  Sometimes  they  forget 
to  send  my  letters  as  promptly  as  I  could  wish." 

"  Rolling  in  riches,  are  you  ?     Well,  I'm  glad  of  it." 

"  No,  not  at  all ;  times  are  bad." 


MONSIEUR   PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE.    255 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  the  president 
exclaimed,  quite  overcome  by  his  host's  misery. 

Madame  came  gracefully  to  the  rescue,  and  bur- 
dened monsieur  with  a  fictitious  attack  of  rheumatism 
from  which  he  vainly  tried  to  free  himself.  The  cap- 
tain sat  by  and  twisted  the  ends  of  his  fair  mustache 
and  thought  of  the  pretty  girl  in  the  curl-papers.  This 
is,  however,  not  the  captain's  story,  it  is  M.  Pampa- 
Ion's,  and  poor  Pampalon  might  indeed  have  melted 
the  heart  of  a  rock  as  he  sat  there  listening  in  misan- 
thropic agony.  You  see,  he  had  noticed  the  sparkle 
in  Madame's  eyes,  and  he  hated  to  have  her  pleased 
even  by  this  long-legged  old  judge  of  a  Prussian 
criminal  court. 

III. 

M  PAMPALON  was  impressed  with  the  belief 
•  that  all  marriageable  men  had  Dodd's  hand  as 
their  aim  in  life,  with  a  wary  eye  opened  to  pecuniary 
results.  This  feverish  problem,  being  studied  by  an 
impartial  mind,  resolved  itself  into — Monsieur  Al- 
phonse  Gaspard.  Alphonse  Gaspard  lived  next  door 
to  the  Pampalon's,  and  was  the  sad  spectacle  of  a 
weak  young  man  with  a  strong-minded  and  widowed 
mother,  a  nice  income,  and  no  visible  occupation  but 
to  stare  over  the  garden-paling  at  Mademoiselle  Dodd. 
Monsieur  Pampalon  patronized  Alphonse.  Al- 
phonse played  piquet,  ^cart6,  vingt-et-un — in  fact,  all 
those  pleasant  games  without  which  retirement  be- 
comes an  unbearable  bore.  Besides,  Alphonse  en- 
joyed being  patronized  by  Dode's  father,  and  Dode's 
father  had,  without  much  ado,  made  up  his  mind  that 
it  would  be  a  great  convenience  if  she  should  marry 
Alphonse  and  live  next  door,  with  an  income  inde- 
pendent of  himself.  He  was  not  a  cruel  father — 
Heaven  forbid ! — but  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 


25^   MONSIEUR  PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE. 

that  eifect  without  consulting  anyone,  and  he  consid- 
ered the  matter  as  good  as  settled. 

No  one  could  expect  Monsieur  Pampalon  to  waste 
much  romance  on  his  chosen  son-in-law :  he  viewed 
him  practically  —  not  from  the  heart,  but  from  the 
pocket  —  and  found  him  extremely  desirable,  so  M. 
Pampalon  being  a  tyrant  and  Alphonse  a  willing  slave, 
there  was  a  bond  of  accommodating  friendship  be- 
tween them.  M.  Pampalon  hated  to  be  forgotten ; 
and  now  this  poor  misanthrope  felt  his  eyes  grow  dim 
as  the  president  and  madame  talked  and  laughed  to- 
gether, unmindful  of  him,  and  the  captain  looked 
cautiously  about  for  some  one  in  curl-papers. 

Just  then  fate  sent  Alphonse  up  the  front  walk  in  a 
magnificent  morning  toilet,  as  she  sent  him  twelve 
hours  in  the  twenty-four.  M.  Pampalon,  forcing  back 
some  tears,  rose  and  welcomed  Alphonse  vehemently 
— flung  himself,  so  to  speak,  on  the  poor  fellow  in  a 
manner  which  all  but  said,  "  You  see  how  I  am  for- 
saken ! "  Alphonse  was  highly  flattered,  but  when 
he  saw  strangers  he  would  have  fled,  only  that  M. 
Pampalon  clung  to  him. 

The  blunt  old  president  stared  at  Alphonse  in  un- 
disguised wonder,  and  the  captain  bowed  stiffly,  and 
twirled  his  mustache. 

There  was  a  moment's  awkward  pause,  then  a  light 
step  came  down  the  veranda.  The  captain  and  his 
father  turned  with  quick  military  precision. 

"  Coquette !  coquette !  where  have  you  left  your 
curl-papers  ?  "  the  president  laughed,  threatening  her 
with  his  forefinger.  "  What !  you  won't  kiss  Uncle 
Karl  because  you  are  eighteen  ?  There  !  I  knew  you 
would  !  "  and  he  gallantly  kissed  Mademoiselle  Dodd. 
— "  Albert,"  he  said  to  that  young  man,  "  I  am  sorry 
for  your  sake  that  you  are  not  your  father.  Rose,  my 
child,  this  is  my  son  the  captain.  By  the  way,  the 
captain  saw  the  curl-papers.     He  is  very  sharp." 


MONSIEUR   PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE.    257 

Dod^  smiled  and  blushed,  and  looked  shyly  up  to 
the  captain  till  she  reached  his  blue  eyes  that  were  so 
much  more  eloquent  than  his  poor  lame  tongue. 

So  you  see  how  all  these  dramatis  personce  came 
together — how  the  president  laughed  loud  and  long 
with  madame ;  how  the  captain  smiled  and  Dode 
blushed ;  how  M.  Alphonse  hid  himself  behind  M. 
Pampalon's  broad  back,  and  felt  an  unknown  emo- 
tion of  jealousy  beneath  his  magnificent  waistcoat ; 
how  poor  M.  Pampalon,  our  unhappy  hero,  felt  life 
to  be  a  burden  to  him,  and,  hating  everybody  as  he 
did,  hated  most  of  all  long-legged  guests  who  burst 
upon  you  unawares  and  make  life  miserable. 


IV. 

*^  IV/fADAME,  I  hate  people  who  come  visiting  with- 

-1- '  A  out  being  invited." 

M.  Pampalon  had  retired  to  rest  one  night,  and 
only  the  outline  of  a  lowering  face  surmounted  by  a 
tasseled  nightcap  could  be  seen  among  the  bedclothes. 
Monsieur  addressed  madame,  who  was  tying  her  night- 
cap under  her  double  chin,  and  wisely  made  believe 
not  to  hear.  "  Are  you  deaf  ?  I  say  it's  a  confound- 
ed impertinence  for  people  to  come  visiting  without 
an  invitation !  " 

"  Well  t " 

"  Well  ? "  monsieur  echoed,  *'  is  that  all  you  have 
to  say  ?  At  your  age  you  should  do  something  else 
than  encourage  these — these  idlers." 

"  At  my  age  !  "  madame  was  angry.  "  At  my  age 
I  might  be  doing  something  else  than  listening  to 
your  nonsense." 

"  What  do  you  say,  madame  ? "  monsieur  cried,  and 
raised  a  wrathful  head  from  the  conjugal  pillow. 
"  You're  a  coquette — a  coquette,  madame  I  " 

17 


2S8   MONSIEUR  PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE. 

"  Monsieur  Pampalon,  you're  a  fool !  "  but  madame 
was  mollified. 

"This  to  me?  "  and  with  a  sudden  change  of  voice 
from  the  wrathful  to  the  lachrymose,  M.  Pampalon 
sank  back  on  his  pillow  and  groaned  at  the  misery 
of  his  life. 

"  If  you  dislike  them,  why  don't  you  tell  them  to 
go?" 

"  I  tell  them  ?    It's  your  duty.    You  say  to  them — " 

"  Indeed  I  shall  not.  I  like  them  both,  but  if  you 
want  them  to  go,  why  don't  you  tell  them  so  ?  " 

"  It's  abominable  !  "  monsieur  groaned. 

"You're  a  coward,"  madame  remarked,  kindly. 

"  You  shall  repent  this  !  "  and  monsieur  half  rose 
in  bed. 

However,  madame  had  a  fine  temper  well  under 
control.  With  a  firm  hand  she  extinguished  the  can- 
dle, then  saying  quite  unmoved,  "  Papa,  go  to  sleep 
now — your  threats  always  end  in  words,"  lay  down 
and  shut  her  bright  black  eyes,  preparatory  to  sleeping 
the  sleep  of  the  unromantic  just. 


M  PAMPALON  was  in  despair.  One  day  he  cut 
•  across  his  front  garden  into  Alphonse's,  and 
threw  himself  on  young  Gaspard's  neck,  crying  out 
piteously,  "  I  am  deserted  !  They — I  mean  she,  my 
wife,  has  deserted  me  for  an  enemy  of  her  country !  " 

"  Have  you  followed  them  ?  "  Alphonse  asked  with 
great  sympathy. 

"  No,  I  scorn  to,"  and  monsieur  relapsed  into  mel- 
ancholy wrath. 

"  Where's  mademoiselle  ? " 

"Gone  with  them." 

"  What !  "  and  Alphonse  started  back  and  absolutely 


MONSIEUR   PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE.    259 

forced  some  expression  into  his  small  black  eyes — 
"what !  you  allow  your  daughter  to  stay  with  a  mother 
who  is  disgraced  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  is  it — disgraced  !  " 

"  And  you — you  call  yourself  a  father  ?  " 

"  What  else  should  I  call  myself  ?  " 

"  And  the  captain  ?  "  Alphonse  groaned. 

"Gone  too." 

Alphonse  took  off  his  smoking-cap  and  wrung  it. 

"They've  taken  everything  to  eat  in  the  house," 
monsieur  continued  gloomily.  "  The  captain  sat  by 
the  driver  holding  two  bottles  of  champagne  and  one 
of  sauterne.  Madame  had  a  whole  goose  in  a  basket 
at  her  feet,  and  that  German  beggar,  the  president, 
laughed  in  my  face  as  they  drove  off." 

"  You  saw  them  go  and  never  stopped  them  ? "  Al- 
phonse cried,  in  such  undisguised  horror  that  M.  Pam- 
palon  paused  in  his  anguish  to  ask,  "  Why  should  I  ?  " 

"  What !  when  madame  elopes — " 

"  M.  Alphonse,  you  misunderstand  :  madame  has 
gone  to  a  picnic.  She  has  left  me  alone,  and,  as  if 
that  were  not  enough,  there  is  nothing  to  eat  in  the 
house.     Can  you  give  me  something? " 

For  a  moment  monsieur's  stomach  conquered  his 
emotions,  but  when  the  mistaken  Alphonse  had  dis- 
appeared to  order  a  lunch,  the  wretched  man,  seeing, 
in  his  mind's  eye,  the  champagne,  sauterne,  goose  and 
sandwiches  vanishing  down  the  throats  of  his  enemies, 
felt  his  wrongs  rising  in  double-distilled  strength,  and 
vowed  vengeance. 

Monsieur  had  indeed  been  deserted.  There  was, 
to  be  sure,  some  excuse  for  madame.  Being  of  a  joy- 
ous nature,  she  had  little  chance  in  the  companionship 
of  her  husband  to  cultivate  that  side  of  her  character. 
What  wonder  that  she  liked  the  president's  society 
and  shared  all  the  amusements  of  that  benighted  for- 
eigner?    The  president  had  soon  remarked  the  sink- 


26o   MONSIEUR   PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE. 

ing  of  his  host's  hospitable  thermometer,  but  madame 
growing  more  cordial  in  the  ratio  of  her  husband's 
iciness,  the  jovial  old  fellow  lived  in  a  constant  state 
of  mental  see-saw,  and  could  only  encourage  his  own 
visit  by  remembering  how  often  his  capricious  host 
had  lodged  in  the  Konigsstrasse  in  Berlin. 

As  for  the  captain,  by  this  time  he  was  in  love, 
quickly,  frankly,  incurably.  They  were  so  constantly 
together,  he  and  Mademoiselle  Dode  :  they  had  been 
as  clearly  forgotten  as  the  babes  in  the  wood,  in  the 
midst  of  the  president's  pleasure  excursions,  madame's 
gayety  and  Monsieur  Pampalon's  unspeakable  jeal- 
ousy and  misanthropy.  This  is  not  the  captain's  story, 
and  so  I  will  not  tell  how  Captain  Albert  and  Made- 
moiselle Dod^  found  themselves  in  the  garden  one 
summer's  twilight  under  the  dense  shade  of  a  noble 
evergreen,  and — well !  well !  the  gallant  captain  stoop- 
ed and  whispered  something,  and  some  one  looked  up 
at  him  very  shyly  with  eyes  full  of  tears  and  smiles. 
But,  as  I  said  before,  this  is  not  the  captain's  story, 
it  is  M.  Pampalon's. 

So  what  wonder  that  Mademoiselle  Dode  looked  at 
the  world  through  rose-colored  glasses,  until  even  her 
unhappy  father  partook  of  the  general  hue  :  truly,  only 
love  can  be  so  blind. 

To  be  sure,  madame  was  not  in  love.  Her  daily 
flights  with  the  president  were  of  the  most  prosaic 
character,  even  M.  Pampalon  being  cordially  invited 
to  join.  He,  however,  received  the  invitation  with 
such  utter  gloom,  muttering  something  about  extrava- 
gance and  carriage  hire,  that  it  was  never  repeated. 
Madame,  though  not  in  love,  closed  her  eyes  willing- 
ly ;  so  monsieur  was  alone  with  his  grievances,  roam- 
ing about  with  hanging  under-lip  and  melancholy 
eyelids. 

Misery  not  only  loves  company,  but  generally  finds 
it.     Not  that  Madame  Gaspard  was  miserable,  by  no 


MONSIEUR   PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE.   261 

means ;  she  was  only  miserable  when  she  had  to  pay 
a  bill.  Madame  Gaspard  was  Alphonse's  mother  and 
lived  next  door,  and  it  was  a  great  convenience — for 
M.  Pampalon  was  lazy,  even  in  his  unhappiness — to 
pour  into  her  ear  the  tale  of  his  misery  and  his  ex- 
penses. Madame  had  a  fellow-feeling  when  her  af- 
flicted neighbor  spoke  of  bills.  She  had  also  made  up 
her  maternal  mind  that  Alphonse  should  marry  Dod6 
and  Dode's  fortune.  So  she  watched  the  captain  with 
suspicious  eyes,  and  saw  through  his  feelings  with  a 
clearness  that  should  have  put  the  Pampalon  family 
to  the  blush  at  their  marvelous  stupidity. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  do  justice  to  Madame 
Gaspard's  emotions  as  she  saw  the  captain  gallantly 
escorting  Mademoiselle  Dod^  through  the  garden,  car- 
rying the  watering-pot  and  the  garden  shears,  while 
her  own  Alphonse  lay  under  a  pear  tree  reading  Al- 
fred de  Musset.  He  had  neglected  Dodd  of  late  for 
he  was  desperately  shy  in  spite  of  Alfred  de  Musset, 
and  it  was  with  a  sinking  heart  that  he  obeyed  his 
mother's  stern  commands  to  go  to  the.Pampalon's  and 
be  fascinating. 

Fascinating  ?  Why,  he  never  had  a  chance,  for  he 
always  encountered  M.  Pampalon  on  the  veranda,  who 
forgot  the  emotions  of  a  father  in  his  hunger  for  sym- 
pathy. So  Alphonse  listened,  sliding  about  on  the 
hard  veranda  chair,  a  prey  to  terror,  fearing  that  some- 
body would  come. 

There  was  no  need,  for  in  the  sunlit  flower  garden 
the  captain  and  Dod6  were  gathering  roses. 


262   MONSIEUR   PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE. 


VI. 

«  A    PARTY,  madame  ?  " 
■^^  "  Yes  ;  why  not,  papa  ? " 

"  What !  a  party — a  party  at  my  house  ?  May  I 
ask  what  you  intend  to  do  with  a  party  ?  " 

"Amuse  myself." 

"  Never  !  "  "  never  in  my  house  !  To  have  it  torn 
up  for  German  beggars,  and  my  money  wasted  ! 
Never  !  never !  never !  " 

"  M,  Pampalon,  you  forget  that  I,  too,  have  a  word 
to  say,"  madame  interposed.  "As  it  is,  perhaps  you 
had  better  know  that  we  have  already  set  the  day  for 
the  party,  and  the  invitations  are  out.  Dode  is  to 
have  a  new  dress — so  am  I.  The  captain  has  gone  to 
town  to  hire  the  band,  and  the  president — " 

Madame  did  not  end,  for  monsieur,  in  a  frenzy, 
grasped  his  head  with  both  hands  and  tore  out  of  the 
house.  He  fled  down  the  well-worn  path,  and  stood 
gasping  and  furious  before  Madame  Gaspard,  whom 
he  awoke  from  her  afternoon  nap. 

"  What  is  it  now  ?  "  madame  asked  in  a  hard,  rasp- 
ing voice,  looking  at  her  visitor  with  much  disfavor, 
for  she  had  an  unacknowledged  feeling  that  had  mon- 
sieur been  her  husband  he  would  have  been  managed 
differently. 

"  A  party !  my  wife  is  going  to  give  a  party ! " 
monsieur  gasped,  and  in  his  despair  thrust  his  hands 
through  his  hair  and  made  it  stand  on  end. 

"  Are  we  invited  ? " 

"  Madame,  do  you  not  see  that  I  am  in  despair  ? 
I — a  party — to  have  my  money  flung  to  the  dogs — 
rioting  and  feasting !  But  I'll  spoil  their  pleasure 
yet ! " 

Madame  had  brought  her  son  up  on  eau  sucrS,  and 


MONSIEUR  PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE.   263 

had  found  it  efficient  in  keeping  down  the  manly  tem- 
per. To  M.  Pampalon  she  brought  a  glass  of  this 
innocent  elixir.  "  Drink  it,  my  friend.  You  should 
be  careful  not  to  excite  yourself ;  you  are  stout,  with 
apoplectic  tendencies." 

"  Thanks  !  thanks  !  you  are  a  true  friend,"  mon- 
sieur murmured.  "  But  I  —  I  must  go  —  I'm  un- 
strung." 

"  See  that  Alphonse  gets  an  invitation  ;  he  hasn't 
had  a  chance  with  Dod6  since  that  monkey  of  a  cap- 
tain has  been  dancing  attendance." 

"  Don't  speak  of  him,"  monsieur  said,  with  a  slight 
shudder.     "  But  I'll  spoil  their  pleasure.     I'll — " 

What  monsieur  meant  to  do  remained  unsaid,  for 
just  then  Alphonse  appeared  with  an  immense  envel- 
ope in  his  hand,  out  of  whose  contents  he  read  with 
much  satisfaction  that  Madame  and  Monsieur  Pam- 
palon requested  the  pleasure  of  his  company,  etc.,  etc. 
"  We  are  very  much  obliged,"  said  the  grateful  Al- 
phonse, shaking  Pampalon's  limp  and  dejected  hand. 

"  Don't  be  !  It's  a  lie  !  "  was  that  gentleman's  far 
from  satisfactory  reply. 

"  What  ? " 

"  It's  a  lie  I "  M.  Pampalon  repeated  with  passion  at 
white  heat,  "  but  I'll  be  hanged  if  they  don't  have  a 
good  time,  a  high  old  time  !  "  and  he  fled  out  of  the 
house  leaving  Madame  and  Alphonse  to  wonder  if 
the  last  promise  was  not  to  be  taken  in  a  figurative 
sense. 

VII. 

THE  night  of  the  party  came — a  lovely  evening 
with  the  blue-black  zenith  radiant  with  stars, 
and  the  air  full  of  the  perfume  of  flowers  heavily  laden 
with  dew.  Everybody  knew  that  there  was  a  party 
at  the  Pampalons',  for  a  double  row  of  Chinese  Ian- 


264   MONSIEUR   PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE. 

terns  led  from  the  gate  to  the  entrance,  to  the  great 
satisfaction  of  the  captain,  who  had  arranged  this 
decoration,  and  the  great  satisfaction  of  Mademoiselle 
Dodd,  who  admired  everything  the  captain  did. 

Mademoiselle  Dodd  had  herself  made  a  hurried 
and  shy  appearance  before  that  gallant  officer  in  the 
drawing-room  an  hour  before  the  party,  and  quite 
overwhelmed  him  with  a  vision  of  airy  lace  and  deli- 
cate rosebuds,  and  a  pair  of  brown  eyes  that  dared 
him  to  say  that  the  lace,  the  rosebuds  and  the  afore- 
said brown  eyes  were  not  the  loveliest  of  their  kind, 
and,  it  being  quite  dark  in  the  room,  the  captain — 
I  am  afraid  one  of  the  band  heard,  for  he  was  dis- 
covered in  a  corner  blowing  his  nose  with  unnatural 
violence. 

Madame  Pampalon  was  gorgeous  in  yellow  satin 
and  scarlet  poppies. 

"Upon  my  word,  ma'am,  you  are  magnificent,"  the 
president  said  ;  which  madame  would  have  continued 
to  be  had  she  not  gone  into  the  kitchen  and  had  a 
violent  altercation  with  the  caterer.  The  emotions 
so  excited  caused  her  face  to  turn  of  a  fine  crimson, 
which  would  not  and  could  not  harmonize  with  the 
poppies. 

Monsieur  had  a  plan — alas  for  him  ! — and  for  once 
he  was  a  silent  martyr.  As  silent  martyr  he  arrayed 
himself  in  a  claw-hammer  coat  and  a  white  necktie, 
and  made  a  dismal  effort  to  put  one  half  of  a  light 
lavender  kid  glove  on  a  perspiring  hand.  But  there 
is  a  point  when  even  the  worm  will  turn  :  it  was  not 
monsieur's  time  to  turn  quite  yet,  but  he  already  bade 
defiance  to  the  world,  as  it  were,  when  he  made  his  ap- 
pearance in  society  with  only  half  a  glove  on.  Society, 
consisting  of  madame  at  that  time,  looked  at  him  criti- 
cally from  head  to  foot,  and  concluded,  very  wisely, 
that  this  votary  to  pleasure  was  in  such  a  state  of  ex- 
asperation   that  it  would  be  best  to  leave  him  alone. 


MONSIEUR   PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE.   265 

Society  began  to  arrive  at  half-past  eight,  and  its 
individual  members  trod  on  each  other's  heels,  so 
exactly  had  Ligny  calculated  the  time  of  coming. 
Madame  had  even  been  successful  enough  to  include 
one  count  and  half  a  dozen  "  De  "  Something-or- 
others  among  her  guests.  In  fact,  everybody  who 
was  anybody  in  Ligny  was  invited,  and  madame's 
heart  beat  high  with  gratification  under  her  yellow 
satin  bodice. 

A  bow,  a  curtsy,  a  scrape,  and  madame  welcomed 
a  new  arrival,  then  turned  him  over  to  monsieur,  who 
received  him  with  speechless  resentment.  Still,  how 
was  the  victim  to  know  monsieur's  secret  thoughts  as 
he  pressed  that  unhappy  hand  and  congratulated  him- 
self on  being  in  the  distinguished  society  of  monsieur 
and  madame  and  their  amiable  family  ? 

The  amiable  family  was  at  that  moment  dancing 
with  the  captain,  and  casting  lace  and  rosebud  thun- 
derbolts at  Alphonse.  M.  Gaspard  was  very  unhappy, 
but  madame  his  mother  was  grand  and  proud  in  black 
velvet,  and  made  mental  disparaging  remarks  about 
Madame  Pampalon's  yellow  satin. 

There  were  other  beauties  there  besides  Dod6,  and 
they  looked  encouragement  at  Alphonse,  for  dancers 
were  scarce  ;  but  Alphonse  was  loyal,  so  he  remained 
alone  and  silent,  leaning  against  a  door-post  till  his 
turn  should  come  to  claim  Mademoiselle  Dodo's  hand 
for  the  cotillon. 

M.  Pampalon  was  strangely  passive  :  he  allowed 
madame  to  dictate  his  line  of  conduct  with  such 
speechless  meekness  that  she  patted  him  on  the  back 
with  her  fan  and  said,  "  After  all,  it  is  a  good  child," 
but  overlooked  a  curious  flaring  up  of  the  light  in  her 
husband's  eyes,  which  boded  ill. 

So  he  went  off  on  duty,  as  directed,  to  a  certain 
hard-featured,  gray-complexioned,  thin  woman  who 
persisted  in  sitting  solitary  and  alone  as  near  the  band 


266    MONSIEUR   PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE. 

as  possible.  Her  M.  Pampalon  rescued,  or  rather 
he  gave  her  a  companion  in  misery,  for  he  brought  a 
stiff  chair  and  sat  down  beside  her.  Though  they  said 
not  a  word,  for  the  crash  of  the  instruments  hindered 
all  conversation,  still  they  felt  that  they  were  a  couple 
of  congenial  souls. 

Madame  Gaspard,  if  she  had  been  tasting  of  unal- 
loyed bliss  that  evening,  did  not  look  so.  To  soothe 
her  ruffled  feelings,  Madame  Pampalon  delegated  to 
her  husband  the  pleasant  duty  of  leading  his  sympa- 
thizing neighbor  to  supper.  She  had  organized  an 
intricate  pilgrimage  through  the  hall  and  the  parlor, 
ad  infinitum,  preparatory  to  getting  up  an  appetite  for 
supper,  which  pilgrimage  she  proposed  to  lead  off  with 
the  president.  The  band  had  begun  a  hopeful  march 
in  anticipation  of  supper,  when,  as  she  was  on  the 
point  of  starting,  madame  discovered  Madame  Gas- 
pard still  seated  alone  and  neglected  in  the  shadow 
of  a  window-curtain,  with  feelings  she  took  no  pains 
to  conceal.  "  Dear  me,  Madame  Gaspard  !  where's 
my  husband  ? " 

Madame  Gaspard,  like  a  forlorn  Ariadne,  denied 
all  knowledge  of  her  truant  swain.  Here  the  lady  of 
the  musical  shower-bath  volunteered  the  information 
that  when  monsieur  left  her  an  hour  ago,  he  declared 
that  he  felt  far  from  well. 

"  I  must  see  where  he  is,"  madame  said  like  a  good 
wife,  feeling  some  internal  and  nameless  compunc- 
tions.— "  Excuse  me  for  a  moment,  will  you  not,  presi- 
dent ? "  she  said,  and  left  that  gallant  man,  who  was 
enjoying  himself  hugely  making  love  to  every  woman 
with  whom  he  danced. 

Madame  disappeared,  and  the  orchestra,  like  clock- 
work wound  up,  still  continued  its  runs  and  flourishes, 
when,  through  the  brightness,  the  talking  and  laughter, 
— more  horrible  for  the  contrasted  gayety — there 
rang  a  sudden,  piercing  cry.     It  was  madame's  voice, 


MONSIEUR  I'AMPALON'S   REPENTANCE.    26/ 

and  it  had  hardly  died  away  before  the  president,  the 
captain  and  poor  Dodd  were  already  in  M.  Pampa- 
lon's  room.  On  the  floor  madame  lay  senseless  in 
crushed  yellow  satin,  and  on  the  bed  Monsieur  Pam- 
palon  lay — dead. 

VIII. 

THE  five  doctors  who  were  at  madame's  party 
hurried  up  at  the  first  alarm.  Each  applied  dif- 
ferent remedies,  yet  the  body  of  M.  Pampalon  refused 
to  be  reanimated. 

Poor  M.  Pampalon,  who  only  meant  to  sham  illness 
and  have  all  the  house  in  an  uproar  for  his  sake,  had 
taken  laudanum  to  give  his  wife  a  good  fright  when 
she  should  find  him.  Supper-time  being  propitious, 
knowing  he  should  be  missed,  he  had  set  to  work  and 
had  surprised  himself  completely  by  taking  a  trifle  too 
much. 

The  spirit  of  M.  Pampalon  was  not  in  his  body,  for 
that  lay  limp  and  lifeless  on  the  bed,  animated  by 
nothing  nobler  than  earthiness.  The  spirit  of  M. 
Pampalon  had  fled  from  its  body  as  far  as  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  and  there  it  stood  and  wrung  its  hands,  as 
for  the  first  time,  in  seeing  the  bitter  grief  of  wife  and 
child,  it  realized  the  happiness  it  had  placed  at  stake. 
M.  Pampalon,  unfettered  by  a  body,  saw  with  clearer 
eyes  and  wrung  his  hands  in  mute  repentance,  and 
for  the  first  time,  when  he  would  have  gladly  wept, 
M.  Pampalon,  being  a  spirit,  lacked  tears. 

The  house  was  still  lighted  ;  the  Chinese  lanterns 
still  burned  brightly,  but  the  guests  had  gone.  The 
remnants  of  the  night's  gayety  lingered  about  like 
wretched  ghosts. 

Poor  Madame  Pampalon,  having  recovered  from 
the  first  terrible  shock,  returned  to  her  normal  con- 
dition of  a  helpful  little  woman,  though  her  eyes  were 


268    MONSIEUR   PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE. 

red  and  swollen  with  weeping  ;  and  the  spirit  of  M. 
Pampalon,  looking  on,  became  strangely  humble  and 
repentant,  for  the  soul  of  M.  Pampalon  had  received 
a  lesson. 

The  doctors  called  it  apoplexy,  and  the  doctors 
called  it  heart  disease,  while  the  spirit  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed  shook  its  head  wofully,  for  the  soul  of  M. 
Pampalon  wanted  to  return  to  its  body,  and  life  seem- 
ed very  sweet  now  that  it  ^as  so  nearly  lost.  The 
chances  for  the  life  of  M.  Pampalon  were  becoming 
fainter,  when  one  of  the  physicians,  in  lifting  mon- 
sieur's head,  displaced  the  pillow.  It  was  lucky  that 
the  unhappy  sinner  had  not  hidden  that  bottle  more 
successfully. 

"I  have  it,  gentlemen!"  the  doctor  cried,  brisk- 
ly ;  "  it's  laudanum.  He  has  tried  to  kill  himself. 
There  is  some  hope  now,  though,  really,  he  has  made 
it  a  very  delicate  case,"  and  he  nodded  approvingly 
at  the  body. 

The  spirit  of  M.  Pampalon  hung  its  head  in  shame 
and  wrung  its  hands  again  as  his  poor  child,  clasping 
the  hand  of  what  had  been  M.  Pampalon,  whispered 
in  eager  defence,  "  Not  ray  father — oh,  not  my  father  ! 
he  loved  us  so  much!"  and  fell  back  in  tlie  arms  of 
madame's  Brittany  maid,  who  bore  her  young  mistress 
away. 

I  could  tell  you  very  much  about  the  distracted 
captain,  who  stood  guard  at  Dode's  door,  but,  as  I  said 
before,  this  is  not  the  captain's  story. 

A  flickering  of  the  eyelids,  a  gasp,  a  sigh,  and  the 
doctor  had  conquered,  for  Monsieur  Pampalon's  spirit 
returned  to  its  normal  condition,  and,  being  M.  Pam- 
palon, groaned. 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened  and  the  captain 
came  in. 

"  Monsieur  is  out  of  danger,"  the  doctor  cried. 


MONSIEUR   PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE.    269 

"  Then  come  at  once  to  Mademoiselle  for  she  is 
very  ill,"  the  captain  interrupted,  harshly,  for  the  cap- 
tain was  human  and  not  at  all  in  love  with  M.  Pam- 
palon. 

In  an  instant  that  self-made  invalid  was  deserted 
except  by  the  captain,  who  stared  at  him  with  half- 
fascinated  eyes. 

Another  gasp,  another  sigh,  and  M.  Pampalon 
opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  Albert  in  a  dazed 
way. 

"  What  do  they  mean  by  deserting  me  ? "  he  whim- 
pered. 

*'  Mademoiselle  is — is  ill." 

"  What  is  that  to  you  }  "  for  M.  Pampalon  resented 
the  captain's  undisguised  emotion. 

"  I  love  her,"  the  young  man  replied  simply. 

M.  Pampalon  was  the  soul  of  honor,  but  he  mut- 
tered "  Alphonse  Gaspard." 

"  What  is  he  to  her  ?  " 

"  Her  future  husband."  And  M.  Pampalon  closed 
his  eyes  and  the  conversation  at  the  same  time. 

Albert  looked  with  helpless  rage  at  the  exasperat- 
ing form  of  M.  Pampalon,  shielded  by  weakness,  and 
with  a  heavy  heart  he  left  the  room.  Not  for  an  instant 
did  he  doubt  her.  "  I'll  wager  it's  some  confounded 
family  arrangement  of  which  she  is  ignorant,"  he 
thought  with  a  groan.  "  I'll  join  my  regiment,"  and 
as  he  stalked  out  of  the  room  he  nearly  fell  over  Al- 
phonse, lingering  on  the  threshold. 

M.  Pampalon  was  in  a  state  of  weak  rage  because 
of  the  captain's  desertion.  As  if  it  were  an  every-day 
occurrence  to  see  him,  M.  Pampalon,  die  !  Just  then 
Alphonse  knocked.  "Come  in  !  "  M.  Pampalon  said 
in  an  expiring  tone,  and  groaned  aloud.  It  was  really 
unnecessary,  but  M.  Pampalon  felt  that  this  was  the 
least  you  could  expect  of  a  man  who  had  been  at  the 
point  of  death. 


270    MONSIEUR   PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE. 

Alphonse  stared  at  his  prospective  father-in-law 
with  damp,  sympathetic  eyes. 

**  Sit  down,  Alphonse  ;  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
about  Dod^,"  monsieur  said,  with  a  vivid  recollec- 
tion of  the  captain. 

The  unhappy  Alphonse  obeyed. 

"  Now,  if  she  were  here  we  might  settle  a  certain 
little  matter." 

"  Oh,  monsieur,  don't  you  know — "  Alphonse  stam- 
mered. 

"What?"  cried  monsieur. 

"  The  shock  of  last  night — she  is  threatened  with 
brain  fever,"  Alphonse  exclaimed,  regardless  of  mon- 
sieur's feelings. 

"  My  God  !  I — Let  me  go  !  I  tell  you  I  must  go 
to  my  child  !  "  and  the  poor  old  culprit  tried  to  get 
out  of  bed.  But  even  Alphonse  could  manage  him 
now,  he  was  so  weak.  The  unhappy  father  buried  his 
head  in  the  pillovTs  and  shed  bitter  tears,  and  knew 
that  if  his  child  died  he  had  killed  her.  Alphonse 
looked  helplessly  at  the  wretched  man,  and  begged 
him  to  look  up,  for  it  might  all  end  well.  To  all  of 
which  M.  Pampalon  paid  no  heed,  for  he  was  repent- 
ing at  leisure. 

IX. 

A  FEW  days  afterward  President  Karl  sat  in  his 
room,  nursing  his  leg,  with  a  perplexed  look  in 
the  only  eye  capable  of  expression.  The  captain  was 
packing  ;  he  had  decided  to  go,  with  a  look  as  stern 
as  a  pair  of  naturally  sunny  eyes  could  assume, 

"  It's  a  pity — "  President  Karl  began,  when  the  cap- 
tain interrupted  him  unceremoniously  :  "  Father,  we 
must  go.  How  can  I  stay  here,  when  I  love  that  girl 
more  than  my  life  ?  When  I  know  she's  to  marry 
that  confounded  jackass? " 


MONSIEUR  PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE.    27 1 

"  Mildly,  my  son — mildly." 

"It's  easy  enough  for  you  to  say  'mildly,'  but 
you'd  be  the  last  man  to  give  up  a  girl  if  you  really 
wanted  her." 

"  There  is  truth  in  that ; "  and  the  president  was 
highly  flattered,  "  but  it  won't  do  to  say  so. — Con- 
sider, Albert,"  he  said  aloud,  "  she  may  never  marry 
anyone.  You  know  she  is  very  ill,  and  we  might  as 
well  look  facts  in  the  face." 

"  Don't  speak  so,  father ;  I  cannot  bear  it !  " 

"Albert,  be  a  man.  Do  you  think  you  are  the 
only  man  who  has  lost  the  woman  he  loves  ?  " 

"  Will  you  go,  father  ?  "  and  the  Captain  ignored 
the  philosoohy. 

"  Well,  if  I  must." 

So  the  fiery  steeds  of  the  Ligny  omnibus  once  more 
reined  in  at  M.  Pampalon's  front  gate  ;  again  there 
was  the  creak  of  the  gravel  walk  and  the  letting  down 
of  steps.  Captain  Albert  looked  wistfully  back  at  a 
certain  little  room  with  closed  windows,  but  the  un- 
feeling coachman  gave  him  no  time  for  reflection. 

They  had  gone  without  leave-taking,  for  the  whole 
house  was  in  confusion.  Only  Alphonse  saw  them 
start,  and  his  emotions  were  of  unequivocal  joy,  for, 
after  all,  Alphonse  was  a  man,  and  he  hated  his  rival. 

"  They've  gone  1 "  Alphonse  cried  triumphantly  to 
M.  Pampalon  as  that  poor  man  came  out  of  Dode's 
door  late  that  evening,  looking  haggard  and  careworn. 

"Who?" 

"  The  president  and  the  captain." 

"Gone?  The  captain  gone?  The  very  man  I 
want  to  see  ! "  The  poor  father  groaned  and  hid 
his  face  in  his  hands. 

In  the  closed  room  a  small  restless  head  was  toss- 
ing about  on  the  pillow  and  moaning,  "Albert!  Al- 
bert ! "  till  the  doctor  said,  "  Who  is  Albert  ? "  and 


2/2    MONSIEUR  PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE. 

M.  Pampalon,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  with  a 
sinking  heart  confessed  it  must  be  the  captain. 

"  Bring  the  captain ;  he  may  save  your  daughter's 
life,"  the  doctor  said. 

Bring  the  captain  ?  Why,  he  would  have  brought 
the  moon  to  save  her.  So  he  went  humbly  to  bring 
the  captain,  and  the  captain  was  now  on  his  way  to 
Berlin  at  the  rate  of  fifty  miles  an  hour. 

"  I'll  go  after  him,"  M.  Pampalon  cried  as  he  hur- 
ried past  the  bewildered  Alphonse.  "  I  must  bring 
him  back.  Bear  it  like  a  man,  Alphonse,"  and  M. 
Pampalon  disappeared. 

For  an  instant  M.  Alphonse  stared  about  him,  then 
a  blur  dimmed  his  eyes,  so  that  he  could  hardly  find 
the  way  to  his  own  gate. 

Madame  Gaspard  was  knitting  by  the  lamp  in  the 
family  sitting-room  when  Alphonse  came  in.  "  Mother, 
I'm  going  to  London  to-morrow." 

"  Are  you  mad  ? " 

"  The  captain  is  coming  back ;  Monsieur  Pampalon 
has  gone  to  Berlin  for  him." 

"  My  poor  child,  take  some  of  this,"  and  madame 
offered  him  a  glass  of  eau  sucrS,  "it  will  do  you 
good." 

"  Mother,  pray  don't !  "  Alphonse  cried  with  aver- 
sion ;  "  you  seem  to  think  that  sugar  and  water  will 
cure  everything." 

"  My  son,  it  cured  all  the  emotions  of  your  late 
lamented  father." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Alphonse  rebelled  ;  the 
next  morning  he  rebelled  for  the  second  time  when  he 
took  the  train  for  London  without  as  much  as  saying 
to  madame,   "  By  your  leave." 

Whether  Alphonse  ever  recovered  from  his  passion 
is  not  known.  Yet  I  do  know  that  a  retributive  Provi- 
dence sent  a  very  tall  and  bony  woman  into  the  Gas- 
pard house  in  the  course  of  time,  who  tyrannized  over 


MONSIEUR  PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE.    2/3 

the  tyrant  Madame  Gaspard,  and  called  her  mother- 
in-law,  and  who.  hasn't  called  on  the  Pampalons  to 
this  day. 


MPAMPALON  had  followed  in  the  footsteps  of 
•  President  Karl,  but  not  of  the  captain,  for  the 
captain  had  deserted  his  father  just  as  they  reached 
Paris  in  the  omnibus.  He  was  unspeakably  wretched, 
and  could  not  tear  himself  away  from  Ligny ;  he 
could  not  return  to  Berlin  with  the  haunting  thought 
that  the  girl  he  loved  might  be  dying.  But  he  wanted 
to  be  alone  in  his  misery,  so  he  escaped  from  his 
father,  seeing  that  unhappy  man  for  the  last  time  as 
he  was  defending  himself  from  enthusiastic  cabmen. 

The  captain  returned  to  Ligny  that  same  evening, 
and  met  madame's  Brittany  maid  in  the  narrow  lane 
behind  the  house.  Mademoiselle  was  worse,  much 
worse,  the  faithful  follower  sobbed,  and  hiding  her 
face  in  her  sturdy  arms,  bawled  very  sincerely. 

The  wretched  captain  said  nothing,  but  he  looked 
unsteadily  at  her  for  a  few  seconds,  then  turned  away 
with  a  face  pale  and  worn. 

"  He'll  do  himself  something ! "  cried  madame's 
Brittany  maid,  with  a  dim  remembrance  of  certain 
well-thumbed  romances. 

But  the  captain  did  not  lay  violent  hands  on  him- 
self j  in  fact,  the  thought  did  not  enter  his  mind.  He 
lingered  about  the  house,  hoping  to  hear  more ;  he 
would  have  gone  in,  but  he  dared  not.  In  his  rest- 
less misery  he  trudged  down  the  country  roads  about 
Ligny  till  the  church  bells  sounded  midnight.  Then 
he  retraced  his  steps,  and  paced  up  and  down  before 
M.  Pampalon's  front  gate  until  the  light  in  the  hall 
changed  to  a  flash  as  the  door  opened.  There  was 
the  sound  of  a  man's  tread  on  the  gravel  walk,  and 
i8 


2/4   MONSIEUR  PAMPALON'S   REPE>fTANCE. 

in  a  moment  more  the  doctor  was  lifting  the  latch  of 
the  front  gate.  He  paused  at  sight  of  a  man  pacing 
up  and  down.  Something  familiar  about  the  figure, 
or  some  sudden  suspicion,  made  him  pause.  "  Who 
are  you  ?     What  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

The  other  stopped,  and  the  two  men  faced  each 
other. 

"  Why,  it  is  the  captain  !  " 

"  Is  there  hope  ?  " 

"Where  is  M.  Pampalon  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know?"  the  captain  cried,  with  an 
impatient  stamp  of  his  foot. 

"  True  !  true  !  he  only  went  to-day.  Yes,  now  there 
is  hope;  you're  just  the  man  I  want;  you  bring  hope 
along  with  you.  Come  !  "  and  the  doctor  led  the  cap- 
tain, bewildered  and  with  a  beating  heart,  into  the 
familiar  house,  where  the  Brittany  maid  received  them 
with  satisfaction,  where  madame  was  too  unhappy  to 
be  astonished,  where  poor  Dod6  grew  quiet  when  the 
captain  laid  his  hand  on  hers. 

You  cannot,  of  course,  expect  the  Ligny  omnibus 
to  have  human  sympathy :  therefore  you  can  hardly 
lay  it  up  against  the  horses  that  they  galloped  just  as 
gayly  down  the  highway  and  left  M.  Pampalon  wvth 
as  much  of  bustle  and  clatter  as  in  the  happy  days 
when  he  was  devoted  to  the  candy  business.  How- 
ever, the  man  who  alighted  two  days  afterward  with 
an  aching  head  and  a  heavy  heart,  was  a  different 
M.  Pampalon  from  that  one.  A  man  who  begins  to 
repent  after  he  is  fifty  generally  means  it. 

"  He  is  not  in  Berlin,"  he  said  hoarsely  to  his  wife, 
who  ran  to  the  gate  to  meet  him. 

"  My  dear,  Heaven  is  very  good  to  us,"  and  there 
were  happy  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  Come  and  see." 
Taking   him   gently  by   the    hand   she   led    him  to 


MONSIEUR   PAMPALON'S   REPENTANCE.    275 

Dodd's  room.     "  Softly ! "  said  madame,  and  opened 
the  door. 

Mademoiselle  Dod^  was  sleeping  quietly,  with  a 
smile  on  her  lips,  and  beside  the  bed,  in  the  easiest 
chair  of  the  house,  sat  the  captain,  with  the  light  of 
perfect  contentment  in  his  blue  eyes. 

"  What !  "  and  M.  Pampalon  stared  at  the  captain. 

"  He  never  left  Ligny,"  madame  cried,  with  an  ap- 
proving nod  at  Albert,  for  she  dearly  loved  a  bit  of  ro 
mance. 

Of  course  Dodd  recovered  and  married  the  cap- 
tain,— but  then  this  is  not  really  the  captain's  story. 

As  for  M.  Pampalon,  no  one  ever  said  that  he  be- 
came an  angel  instantly,  and  that  he  never  grumbled 
again.  To  tell  the  truth,  he  and  madame  had  their 
little  differences  just  as  they  used  to,  both  being  hu- 
man. I  do  say,  however,  that  from  that  time  M.  Pam- 
palon gave  up  the  habit  of  brooding  and  took  to 
thinking,  and  there  is  a  delicate  distinction.  Madame 
Pampalon,  being  a  sensible  woman,  appreciated  the 
difference.  When,  once  in  a  while,  she  saw  that  poor 
inborn  misanthrope  battle  with  some  particularly  dis- 
agreeable emotion,  and  after  a  hard  tussle  conquer, 
madame  would  write  it  up  high  in  her  memory  of  her 
husband's  good  deeds,  and  say  gently,  "  It  is  Mon- 
sieur Pampalon's  repentance." 


A  LEGEND  OF  OLD  NEW  YORK. 
I. 

OVER  two  hundred  years  ago  where  the  great  city 
of  New  York  now  stands  there  stood  the  town 
of  New  Amsterdam,  and  Peter  Stuyvesant  of  blessed 
and  hard-headed  memory  was  governor  :  peace  to 
him ! 

In  those  days  there  were  no  elevated  roads,  no 
crowded  tenement-houses,  no  deadly  spider-webs  of 
electric  wires  overhead.  Instead,  there  was  a  market- 
place with  a  town-pump,  flanked  by  queer  Dutch  houses 
with  dazzling  brass  knockers  against  the  green  front 
doors.  Cows  grazed  on  Wall  street,  and  the  good 
citizens  strolled  along  the  Battery  of  an  evening  and 
watched  the  setting  sun. 

The  Battery  of  those  old  days  was  overgrown  with 
grass  and  clover,  and  shaded  by  spreading  elms  and 
sycamores,  beneath  which  the  children  played  and 
made  posies  of  dandelion  blossoms. 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  Battery,  facing  the  sea,  stood 
a  lane  of  curious  gabled  houses,  one  of  which  "  De 
Blauwe  Druif  "  (The  Blue  Grape)  was  a  tavern  famous 
for  \\%  poffertjes  and  wafelen,  Dutch  delicacies  as  cele- 
brated as  the  victories  of  Admiral  de  Ruyter.  On 
the  benches  beside  the  porch  the  good  fathers  of  the 
town  smoked  their  long  clay  pipes,  meditating  about 
nothing  in  particular,  while  the  young  folks  danced  to 
the  tooting  of  Kristoffel  Sauer's  trumpet.  Exhilarat- 
ing were  Kristofifel's  strains,  and  delicious  were  the 
crisp  poffertjes  and  the  sweet  cider  with  which  the  gal- 
(276) 


A   LEGEND  OF  OLD   NEW   YORK.  2'J^ 

lant  swains  revived  the  exhausted  energies  of  the  fair 
juffrouws,  while  the  summer  breeze  swept  up  from  the 
bay  and  lightly  swayed  the  trees,  tempering  the  heat 
of  the  fiery  sun. 

There  was  no  turmoil  of  ships  in  the  harbor  as  in 
these  days,  and  it  was  a  six  months'  wonder  when  a 
Dutch  brig  as  broad  as  she  was  long  rolled  into  the 
bay  and  cast  anchor.  It  gave  the  good  mynheers  in- 
exhaustible food  for  reflection  as  they  smoked  their 
pipes  before  *'  De  Blauwe  Druif  "  and  stared  sleepily 
into  the  sunset. 

Even  old  Governor  Stu)'vesant  lightened  the  cares 
of  government  occasionally  by  stumping  down  from 
the  Town  Hall  on  the  market-place  to  the  Battery  for 
a  sniff  of  sea  air,  and  it  was  his  privilege  to  pat  the 
checks  of  the  prettiest  juffrouws  with  a  condescending 
forefinger.  There  was  nothing  in  this  attention  to 
excite  gossip,  though  it  was  faintly  whispered  if  Mev- 
rouw  Stuyvesant  were  no  more, — and  she  was  very 
lively, — and  old  Peter  were  fifty  years  younger,  then 
would  young  Mistress  Van  Witt  have  the  best  chance 
to  be  in  her  turn  Dame  Stuyvesant.  But  then  Juff- 
rouw  Van  Witt !  What  man,  governor  or  not,  could 
resist  stroking  a  cheek  like  a  peach  blossom,  when  it 
may  be  said  to  have  been  a  perquisite  of  his  exalted 
station.  There  were  certain  heavy  young  mynheers 
who  would  joyfully  have  taken  his  place  without  his 
salary  for  the  chance.  But  they  were  very  shy  of 
words,  and  their  adoration  only  took  the  form  of  steady 
pilgrimages  to  Mynheer  Van  Witt's  mansion,  "  Boven- 
kirk,"  just  beyond  Governor  Stuyvesant's  "  Bowery." 

Here  of  an  afternoon  they  would  find  Wimpje  Van 
Witt  sitting  by  a  window  in  the  great  living-room  and 
spinning  vigorously,  while  at  another  sat  Juffrouw  van 
Twist,  and  if  there  was  a  chill  in  the  air  a  blazing  fire 
on  the  hearth  warmed  the  story  of  Daniel  in  the  lions' 
den,  in  chilly  Delft  tiles  about  the  chimney.     Over  it 


278  A  LEGEND   OF  OLD   NEW   YORK. 

hung  a  time-dulled  oil  painting,  "  The  Martrydom  of 
St.  Nepomuk,"  which  made  the  sturdy  table,  bearing 
up  under  the  weight  of  Juffrouw  van  Twist's  choicest 
dishes,  more  comforting  by  contrast. 

In  the  cosiest  corner  of  the  chimney,  in  a  mighty 
leather  arm-chair  sacred  to  his  use,  reposed  Cornelis 
Van  Witt,  alderman  of  New  Amsterdam,  chosen  as 
such  by  Governor  Stuyvesant  for  the  curious  merit  in 
a  legislator  of  being  always  asleep.  Thus  in  assem- 
bling his  council  old  Peter  was  always  certain  of  one 
loyal,  uncontradictory  adherent,  sound  asleep  in  his 
high-backed  chair,  his  pipe-stem  firmly  clutched  be- 
tween his  teeth  ;  and  this  slumbering  legislator  was 
always  acknowledged  as  being  on  the  side  of  his  Ex- 
cellency, 

Though  Mynheer  Van  Witt  wore  six  pairs  of  breech- 
es and  as  many  waistcoats,  and  represented  the  dignity 
of  the  town,  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  he  had  two 
mortal  terrors — ghosts  and  Englishmen.  He  had 
been  brought  up  with  a  ghost,  so  to  speak,  for  there 
was  a  haunted  graveyard  only  separated  from  his 
threshold  by  a  spreading  field  and  the  public  highway. 
It  was  Tante  Jantje^  his  old  darky  nurse,  who  had 
educated  him  to  a  gruesome  terror  of  that  ancient 
graveyard  beside  the  Church  of  St.  Bartholomew. 

It  seems  that  many  years  before,  a  crack-brained 
sexton  in  a  fit  of  madness  took  up  all  the  headstones 
and  planted  them  in  straight  rows  in  another  part  of 
the  cemetery,  whereupon  he  razed  the  quiet  mounds 
and  departed  from  the  sight  of  men,  and  the  worthy 
burghers,  being  unable  to  disentangle  the  ghastly  re- 
sult, left  the  stones  standing  in  their  straight,  sad  rows. 

But  that  which  really  appalled  Mynheer  was  that 
the  figure  of  the  mad  sexton,  in  trailing  white  dra- 
peries, had  been  seen  by  credible  witnesses  at  mid- 
night gliding  from  stone  to  stone  and  wringing  its  hand 
in  evident  remorse.     As  Mynheer  had  retired  to  his 


A   LEGEND   OF  OLD   NEW   YORK.  279 

couch  at  nine  o'clock  for  fifty  years,  and  as  the  ghost 
appeared  at  midnight,  it  is  needless  to  say  that  he  had 
not  personally  encountered  the  apparition,  but  on  wak- 
ing at  night  from  a  heavy  sleep  evolved  out  of  sauer- 
kraut, sausages,  and  cider,  he  would  turn  pale  to  the  end 
of  his  red  bottle-nose  on  hearing  a  rat  scamper  behind 
the  wainscoting.  Nothing  in  the  world  would  have 
induced  him  to  pass  the  kirkyard  of  St.  Bartholomew 
at  midnight,  though  he  stood  high  in  the  esteem  of  the 
sacred  establishment  by  reason  of  a  ponderous  silver 
communion  service  straight  from  Amsterdam,  which 
had  already  excited  the  righteous  longing  of  every 
rascal  in  town. 

Mynheer's  abhorrence  of  the  British  nation  was 
patriotic.  Great  was  his  agitation  when  the  belated 
tidings  of  the  victories  of  the  Dutch  navy  reached 
New  Amsterdam.  Mynheer  was  always  a  little  be- 
hind time  in  everything,  and  this  Juflfrouw  van  Twist 
was  obliged  to  acknowledge — she  who  had  been  wait- 
ing for  eighteen  years,  since  the  death  of  Mevrouw, 
for  Mynheer  to  propose. 

Thus,  from  being  a  moderately  young  thing,  sandy, 
and  sharp  of  elbows,  bony  of  ancles,  and  with  color- 
less hair  crowned  by  a  stiff  muslin  cap,  Juffrouw  van 
Twist  grew  elderly  and  thinner,  with  all  the  other  ad- 
vantages unchanged,  but  with  a  heroic  determination 
to  marry  Mynheer  Van  Witt  sooner  or  later.  If  it 
be  added  that  Mistress  van  Twist  was  not  without  a 
touch  of  romance,  and  that  it  was  she  who  had  edu- 
cated Wimpje  Van  Witt,  it  will  surprise  no  one  to 
hear  that  young  Wimpje's  day  dreams  were  enlivened 
by  slimmer  and  more  poetic  figures  than  those  silent 
young  mynheers  who  trundled  out  to  Bovenkirk  of 
an  afternoon,  and  whose  only  token  of  love  was  an 
abnormal  staying  power. 


28o  A  LEGEND   OF  OLD   NEW   YORK. 


II. 

THOUGH  Governor  Stuyvesant  had  appointed 
Cornelis  Van  Witt  to  his  high  office  for  the  origi- 
nal merit  of  being  always  asleep,  there  came  a  day 
when  Mynheer  for  the  first  time  wished  he  had  been 
awake. 

It  was  a  Friday — a  miserable,  unlucky  day,  as  every 
one  knows.  Governor  Stuyvesant  greeted  his  assem- 
bled council  in  full  uniform  and  with  a  portentous 
frown,  and  at  the  end  of  a  stormy  meeting — in  which 
he  did  all  the  storming — he  gave  such  a  thump  to  the 
table,  that  Mynheer  Van  Witt  awoke  gasping,  and  was 
with  difficulty  made  to  understand  that  something 
awful  had  happened.  It  seems  that  from  private  in- 
formation the  governor  was  warned  that  Great  Britain 
was  hungering  for  the  Dutch  possessions  in  America, 
and  his  Excellency  was  entreated  to  defend  the  colo- 
nies to  the  bitter  end  in  case  of  invasion. 

The  aldermen's  faces  grew  as  long  as  their  clay 
pipes  and  fully  as  white,  and  they  answered  with  en- 
ergetic silence  his  heroic  appeal  for  support,  and  when 
it  came  to  a  vote  it  was  found  that  only  hard-headed 
old  Peter  and  the  gently  slumbering  Cornelis  Van 
Witt  were  for  a  defence  to  the  death. 

This  heroic,  if  unuttered,  resolution  being  after  vast 
difficulty  imparted  to  Mynheer,  that  brave  man  stag- 
gered downstairs  to  the  street,  with  dazed  eyes  and 
his  knees  quivering  under  his  six  pairs  of  breeches. 

Such  was  the  perturbation  of  his  heroic  soul  that 
he  ran  afoul  of  one  of  the  stone  posts  before  the  Town 
Hall,  and  only  a  grip  in  the  rear  saved  him  from  the 
cobble-stones. 

"  Home,  take  me  home,"  and  Mynheer  clutched 
the  air  for  support. 


A   LEGEND   OF  OLD   NEW   YORK.  28 1 

"  By  all  means,  Mynheer,  but  where  ?  " 

The  unhappy  man  took  his  gaze  out  of  the  future 
and  fastened  it  upon  his  rescuer,  who  rested  his  fore- 
finger with  impertinent  jocularity  against  the  side  of 
a  very  red  nose. 

"  Too  deep  a  glance  into  the  eyes  of  the  fair  Ginev- 
ra,  eh,  Mynheer  ? "  he  remarked  with  shocking  famil- 
iarity. 

Mynheer  was  in  no  condition  to  resent  this  allusion 
to  the  national  beverage,  for  he  was  fighting  the  en- 
tire British  nation.  He  leaned  against  the  stone  post 
and  said,  "  Bring  Powtje." 

Powtje  was  a  fat  cob  harnessed  to  a  chariot  with- 
out springs,  and  it  may  be  considered  a  dispensation 
of  Providence  that  Powtje  should  decline  to  do  any- 
thing but  walk. 

Mynheer  climbed  in  and  was  in  danger  of  forget- 
ting the  obliging  stranger,  had  he  not  patted  Powtje's 
flanks  with  sudden  enthusiasm. 

"  A  beautiful  creature,  Mynheer  ;  a  veritable  Arab 
steed." 

"  To  be  sure.  I'd  forgotten  you,  my  man.  Come 
home  with  me  and  you  shall  have  a  good  supper.  I 
am  Cornells  Van   Witt  of  Bovenkirk." 

After  much  coaxing  Powtje  decided  to  lift  his  Arab 
legs  and  crawl  along,  and  thus  did  Abraham  Baas, 
in  moments  of  tenderness  called  "  Brammatje,"  make 
the  acquaintance  of  Mynheer,  who  sat  beside  him  a 
victim  to  an  active  imagination  which  pictured  to  him 
all  the  horrors  of  war. 

"  O  Lord,  O  Lord,  have  you  heard,"  he  groaned  at 
last,  "the  British  are  coming?" 

"  Coming  ?  "  cried  the  valiant  Brammatje,  "  Let 
'em  come !  "and he  slapped  his  threadbare  doublet  un- 
til the  dust  rose  in  clouds.  "  We'll  be  ready  for  'em. 
I've  seen  'em  in  Boston,  a  lean  lot  whom  a  pottle  of 
good  Schiedam  schnapps  tips  under  the  table." 


282  A   LEGEND   OF  OLD   NEW   YORK. 

"You  are  not  afraid,"  Mynheer  cried  in  undisguis- 
ed admiration  ;  and  a  vague  idea  took  possession  of 
him  that  it  would  be  well  to  have  so  valorous  a  soul 
always  about,  as  a  bodyguard  for  an  evil  day. 

Thus  it  was,  that  Brammatje  entered  Mynheer's 
service,  not  so  much  because  he  was  asked  as  that 
he  declined  to  leave.  And  in  return  for  his  suste- 
nance he  gave  Mynheer  the  comforting  assurance  of 
his  moral  support  in  case  of  British  invasion. 


III. 

THE  first  Mynheer  Van  Witt  had  chosen  the  loca- 
tion of  his  domain  in  fond  remembrance  of  the 
marshes  about  his  own  beloved  Amsterdam.  He  also 
constructed  a  canal  behind  his  back  door,  which  was 
speedily  covered  with  an  aromatic  green  growth,  the 
smell  of  which  positively  made  him  homesick  until 
he  built  himself  a  windmill,  and  at  sight  of  the  slowly 
turning  sails  his  soul  found  some  repose.  Having 
one  day  by  accident  discovered  beyond  his  broad 
fields  a  glimpse  of  the  distant  hills  of  the  Hudson, 
he  had  a  high  wall  and  a  barn  built  to  hide  so  obnox- 
ious a  sight.  His  son  Cornells  inherited  his  father's 
domain,  his  waistcoats,  his  breeches,  and  all  his  pre- 
judices. 

The  day  Cornells  Van  Witt  defied  the  British 
lion,  Wimpje  Van  Witt  sat  at  the  kitchen  window 
mending  the  household  linen.  Beside  her,  in  speech- 
less ecstacy,  sat  young  Mynheer  Wissenkerke  watch- 
ing a  buxom  darky  in  a  scarlet  turban,  frying  pofifert- 
jes.  At  the  kitchen  table  Mistress  van  Twist  was 
preparing  a  roast  of  pork,  and  with  the  exception, 
perhaps,  of  Wimpje,  there  was  nothing  Jan  Wissen- 
kerke loved  quite  so  much.  The  situation  was  too 
much  for  him ;  he  uttered  these  passionate  words : 


A   LEGEND  OF  OLD   NEW   YORK.  283 

"  When  I  marry,  Juffrouw  Wimpje,  and  am  master 
in  my  own  house,  I  shall  eat  pork  and  poffertjes  every 
day — I  just  love  'em." 

There  is  a  picture  of  Wimpje,  a  slim  young  thing, 
yet  with  a  suggestion  of  dimpling  roundness,  a  sunny 
face  framed  by  a  tangle  of  short  gold-brown  curls 
held  in  place  by  a  saucy  muslin  cap.  A  gray  home- 
spun skirt,  a  red-laced  bodice,  and  about  her  pretty 
shoulders  a  ruffled  kerchief  tied  in  a  knot  at  her 
breast.  If  it  be  added  that  the  gray  petticoat  dis- 
played the  neatest  of  red  stockings  and  a  high-heeled 
shoe  with  a  silver  buckle,  it  will  still  be  difficult  to 
give  to  anyone  a  proper  idea  of  young  Wimpje  Van 
Witt. 

At  Mynheer  Wissenkerke's  words  the  upward  tilt 
of  Mistress  Van  Witt's  nose  seemed  to  be  accentu- 
ated ;  but  before  she  could  utter  a  word  the  door  was 
flung  open  and  Mynheer  Van  Witt  sank  exhausted 
into  the  nearest  chair,  and  it  was  only  after  several 
pulls  out  of  a  high-shouldered  black  jug  that  the  good 
man  revived.  Then  was  a  discreet  cough  heard,  and 
Brammatje  Baas  was  discovered  lingering  on  the 
threshold. 

"  Give  the  man  a  drink,"  Mynheer  murmured. 

"  Why,  father,  what  has  happened  .''  " 

"These  be  terrible  times,  Wilhelmina,"  and  Myn- 
heer shuddered.  "Invasion  threatens — the  British 
are  coming.  But  it  behooves  us — to — to  be  brave. 
We'll  all  die  together. 

Here  Jan  Wissenkerke's  legs  shook  so  pitifully  that 
he  sat  down,  while  Brammatje  sniffed  the  aroma  of 
the  frying  poffertjes. 

"  Who  is  that  man,  father  ? " 

Mynheer  replied  with  elaborate  caution  :  "  A  man 
of  valor,  whom  it  were  well  to  befriend  if  the  British 
are  coming.  A  grateful  soul  who  is,  perhaps,  destined 
to  be  killed  in  our  defence." 


284  A   LEGEND   OF  OLD   NEW   YORK. 

They  all  turned  to  look  at  this  prospective  martyr 
to  gratitude. 

"  At  any  rate  count  the  spoons  first,"  Juffrouw  Van 
Twist  said  with  a  sniff. 

"Jan,  we  depend  on  you,"  Mynheer  continued 
tremulously.     "  A  Wissenkerke  never  yields." 

No  description  could  do  justice  to  the  want  of  en- 
thusiasm with  which  young  Wissenkerke  answered 
this  appeal.  Even  Mynheer's  moving  description  of 
the  death  of  a  hero  had  such  a  discouraging  effect 
on  him  that  he  presently  vanished,  forgetful  of  love 
and  roast  pork. 

There  were  for  the  present  no  further  rumors  of 
English  invasion  ;  nevertheless  Brammatje  remained 
and  attacked  five  mighty  meals  a  day  and  waged  a 
heroic  war  on  the  cider  barrel  and  the  gin  bottles, 
mercifully  unconscious  that  Mynheer  proposed,  if 
necessary,  to  make  a  rampart  of  his  well  fed  body. 


IV. 

ONCE  a  year  there  was  a  kirmess  in  New  Amster- 
dam. 
In  those  days  the  market-place  afforded  ample  room 
for  the  rude  wooden  booths  built  in  narrow  lanes  and 
containing  all  manner  of  ware  to  tempt  folks,  from  the 
governor  down  to  the  Indians.  On  one  side  stood 
the  town-hall,  and  opposite  was  the  Dutch  Reformed 
Church,  and  in  between  were  the  dwelling-houses  open- 
ing on  the  cobblestones  and  decked  with  flags  and 
banners  and  evergreens.  There  was  even  a  dance 
booth,  towards  which  the  exhilarating  strains  of  Kris- 
toffel  Sauer's  trumpet  lured  the  juffrouws.  A  most 
delightful  place  to  twirl  about  in  if  you  kept  clear  of 
the  posts.  The  sides  were  open  to  the  summer  air, 
and  there  were  tables  at  which  the  exhausted  could 


A  LEGEND   OF  OLD   NEW   YORK.  28$ 

recruit  their  strength.  At  the  table  of  honor  sat 
Juffrouw  van  Twist,  her  eyes  secretly  fixed  on  the 
next  table  where  sat  a  lithe  and  tall  young  stranger, 
who  followed  young  Wimpje's  evolutions  in  a  country 
dance  with  smiling  sympathy.  He  even  bent  forward 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  slim  form  when  a  post,  or 
the  broader  charms  of  some  other  damsel,  hid  her 
from  view.  JuflFrouw  van  Twist  rejoiced,  for  she  had 
a  grievance  against  man  by  reason  of  the  belated  dec- 
laration of  Mynheer  Van  Witt. 

Strangers  were  common  enough  in  the  town  these 
kirmess  days,  but  this  one  was  altogether  different 
from  the  ordinary  variety.  He  had  a  handsome, 
frank  face,  and  a  brown  mustache  with  an  upward 
curl  at  the  ends,  that  suggested  adventure  to  Mistress 
van  Twist.  His  knee-breeches  and  well-fitting  doub- 
let were  black,  and  in  pleasing  contrast  to  the  gray 
of  his  stockings,  his  broad  silk  sash,  and  the  wide- 
brimmed  beaver  hat  that  lay  on  the  table ;  and,  as  a 
good  Dutch  housewife,  she  noted  how  fine  was  the 
linen  of  his  broad  cuffs  and  collar. 

It  was  Jan  Wissenkerke  who  led  Wimpje  back,  red 
as  a  June  rose  and  pouting,  for  they  had  wrecked  on 
a  post. 

There  must  have  been  some  magnetism  in  the  gaze 
of  the  handsome  stranger,  for  Wimpje,  looking  up 
shyly,  met  his  admiring  glance,  and  with  an  invol- 
untary smile  her  eyes  sank  before  his,  as  he  gallantly 
stepped  forward  and  begged  Juffrouw  Van  Witt  for 
the  favor  of  the  next  reel. 

New  Amsterdam  was  aghast,  but  Wimpje  rose, 
shook  her  fair  head  and  homespun  petticoats  in  defi- 
ance, and  lifted  her  pretty  feet  with  renewed  ardor  to 
the  tune  of  Kristoffel's  most  pleasing  strain.  Well 
might  New  Amsterdam  stare ;  not  even  the  posts 
were  obstacles  to  this  agile  stranger.  Neither  did 
he  grow  red  nor  lose  his  breath ;  nay,  when  Kris- 


286  A   LEGEND   OF  OLD   NEW   YORK. 

toflfel  finished  with  a  hilarious  flourish,  then  did  this 
obnoxious  stranger  stoop  and  kiss  young  Wimpje's 
hand  in  the  very  face  of  New  Amsterdam,  and  lead 
her,  blushing  furiously,  to  Mistress  van  Twist,  who  ac- 
knowledged with  a  tender  sigh  that  he  was  the  belated 
realization  of  her  youthful  dreams. 

Who  was  he  and  what  did  he  want  ?  It  transpired 
that  his  name  was  Cawardine — Captain  Tom  Cawar- 
dine  ;  that  he  was  staying  at  The  Blue  Grape  ;  and, 
to  explain  his  universal  disfavor,  that  he  came  from 
Boston,  though  some  experienced  old  burghers  doubt- 
ed if  so  much  agility  and  cheerfulness  could  hail  from 
a  town  famous  only  for  the  crookedness  of  its  streets, 
the  hanging  of  witches,  the  length  of  its  sermons,  and 
a  certain  unwholesome  dish  called  pork  and  beans. 

What  Captain  Cawardine  wanted  was  plain.  It 
was  a  new  way  to  lay  siege  to  a  peaceful  colony  by 
marrying  its  richest  heiress,  for  it  would  be  a  muni- 
cipal misfortune  should  Mynheer  Van  Witt's  fortune 
leave  the  land.  So  it  was  no  wonder  that  all  New  Am- 
sterdam shuddered  when  Captain  Cawardine  kissed 
the  hand  of  Juftrouw  Wimpje  Van  Witt,  who — yes, 
who  blushed  and  smiled. 


V. 

HOW  describe  the  speechless  amazement  of  the 
town  when  the  rumor  spread  like  wildfire  that 
Captain  Cawardine  was  courting  Mistress  Pamplona 
van  Twist ;  but  the  most  amazed  was  Cornelis  Van 
Witt.  He  had  just  prepared  to  take  his  afternoon 
nap  under  the  protection  of  St.  Nepomuk  when  that 
worthy  damsel  looked  in. 

"  I — I — have  something  to  say  to  you  ; "  and  she 
looked  at  St.  Nepomuk  as  if  for  support. 

Mynheer  was  in  undisguised  consternation. 


A   LEGEND   OF  OLD   NEW   YORK.  28/ 

"  Mynheer  Van  Witt,"  she  began,  and  paused ; 
then  there  was  such  a  terrible  silence  that  a  bum- 
blebee straying  in  at  the  window  where  Wimpje  was 
spinning,  filled  the  air  with  its  droning  and  flew  out 
again. 

"  Mynheer  Van  Witt,  I  am  going  to  get  married." 

Here  Wimpje's  spinning-wheel  fell  with  a  furious 
clatter. 

Mynheer  was  speechless.  Then  he  gathered  his 
faculties  together.  "  JuflErouw  van  Twist,  are  you — 
am  I —  Married  ?  Did  you  say  married  ?  Blicksem, 
Juffrouw  !     When  did  I  ask  you  to  marry  me  ?  " 

"  You  I "  And  out  burst  the  suppressed  resent- 
ment of  eighteen  years.  "  Not  you,  thanks  be  to 
gracious  I " 

"  I  don't  believe  there's  another." 

"  There  is  !  "  she  retorted  in  triumph. 

"He  waited  long  enough." 

"  He's  in  no  hurry,  he's  young." 

"Well,  then,  what  the  d — 1  is  it  to  me  1 " 

"  I  only  want  Mynheer  to  know  that  the  young  man 
is  coming  here — ahem  ! — courting." 

"  Courting !  "  Mynheer  leaped  to  his  feet  and  tore 
up  and  down  the  room.  "Courting — I'll  be  hanged 
if  he  will !  " 

"  Perhaps,  then,  you  will  kindly  look  out  for  an- 
other housekeeper." 

Mynheer  stamped  with  his  feet. 

"  Bonder  and  blicksem  !  I'd  rather  have  married 
you  myself." 

"  May  the  young  man  come  ?  "  Mistress  van  Twist's 
composure  was  unruffled. 

Mynheer  clenched  his  fists  and  spoke.  "Tell him 
to  come,  or  go  to  the  devil ; "  whereupon  he  retreated 
to  his  favorite  haunt,  a  Chinese  pagoda  on  the  canal, 
and  tried  to  collect  himself.  This  was  truly  a  day  of 
horrors.     It  began  early  that  morning  when  Bram- 


288  A  LEGEND   OF   OLD   NEW   YORK. 

matje  announced  that,  as  he  was  a  sober  Christian, 
he  had  himself  seen  the  ghost  of  the  mad  sexton 
just  as  the  bell  of  St.  Bartholomew  struck  midnight. 

Mynheer  thought  of  the  apparition  and  shuddered, 
and  he  thought  of  Juffrouw  van  Twist  and  swore.  How 
serene  had  been  his  existence  these  eighteen  years, 
and  how  divinely  she  stuffed  roast  goose  with  chest- 
nuts. He  was  unspeakably  moved.  Yes,  Pamplona 
van  Twist  was  fully  revenged  for  the  silence  of  eighteen 
years.  And  now  all  these  beautiful  accomplishments 
were  to  be  devoted  to  a  rascal  who  probably  did  not 
appreciate  his  blessings ;  and  when  it  seemed  as  if 
his  cup  of  bitterness  was  full,  who  should  stagger  into 
view  but  Brammatje,  and  the  valiant  man's  voice  was 
all  of  a  quaver. 

"  O  Lord,  O  Lord,  the  English  have  come !  "  he 
gasped,  and  fled  to  the  woodshed. 

A  great  sirloin  of  beef  was  roasting  merrily  over 
the  kitchen  fire  as  Mynheer  passed.  He  paused  at 
the  door  of  the  living-room  with  his  hand  on  the  knob. 
He  heard  voices,  laughter,  scuffling;  in  fact  levity  out 
of  place  in  these  terrible  times. 

It  was  too  true — the  English  had  come  !  On  the 
other  side  of  the  door  young  Wimpje,  playing  with  a 
red  rose,  smiled  bewitchingly  at  the  enemy  through 
its  leaves,  while  Mistress  van  Twist  considerately 
nodded  over  a  worthy  book. 

"  Juffrouw  Wimpje,"  the  enemy  pleaded,  "give  me 
the  rose." 

At  this  moment  ponderous  steps  were  heard  ap- 
proaching, a:nd  Wimpje,  with  a  startled  blush,  drew 
back  the  hand  which  had  found  its  way  into  British 
possession.  The  rose  fell,  both  stooped  to  pick  it  up, 
and  before  Juffrouw  Wimpje  knew  how  it  happened 
her  head  was  on  his  breast,  two  dark  eyes  looked 
laughingly  into  hers,  and — why  explain  } 

The  next  instant  the  door  was  flung  open,  and 


A   LEGEND   OF   OLD   NEW   YORK.  289 

Juffrouw  Wimpje,  as  red  as  the  rose  safely  tucked  in 
the  enemy's  gray  silk  sash,  looked  guiltily  down  at 
sight  of  her  father.  Mynheer  remarked  with  indig- 
nation that  there  was  a  jug  of  his  best  cider  on  the 
table. 

"  What — who  ? "  Mynheer  demanded,  with  a  qua- 
vering voice. 

"  Yes,  Mynheer ;  the  young  man  of  whom  I  spoke," — 
and  Mistress  van  Twist  smoothed  her  best  apron, — 
"Captain  Cawardine." 

"  From  where  ? " 

"  From  Boston — an  Englishman  from  Boston." 

"  I  hate  Boston  and  Englishmen,"  Mynheer  mut- 
tered. 

"  So  I  hear,"  and  Captain  Cawardine  smiled  gently. 

"  A  nest  of  Puritan  bigots  and  hypocrites.  What 
are  you  doing  here  ? " 

"  Courting  a  wife,  as  you  may  have  heard.  Myn- 
heer." 

"  The  more  fool  she,"  and  Mynheer  retreated  to 
his  sacred  chair  and  pretended  to  take  a  nap,  though 
he  raged  under  his  scarlet  handkerchief  until  it  rose 
and  fell  like  an  angry  red  sea. 

But  Mynheer  was  not  the  only  one,  for  Brammatje 
sat  on  a  woodpile  in  the  shed  and  swore  like  a  trooper. 

"That  hook-nosed  Bostonian  '11  bring  you  ill  luck, 
Brammatje.  He's  seen  you  in  Boston  breaking  stones 
on  the  highway  with  the  rest  of  'em,  and  all  for  the 
sake  of  that  old  mare.  I  know  you,  young  sir,  a 
king's  officer  fresh  from  England,  famous  at  a  sword 
thrust,  a  fandango,  or  a  light  ditty — they'd  hang  an- 
other on  the  Common  for  less.  I've  only  to  say 
'  British  spy '  to  Mynheer  and  where'll  you  be,  curse 
you ! " 

Nevertheless,  Juffrouw  van  Twist's  courtship  pros- 
pered slowly  and  steadily  ;  Captain  Cawardine  was  at 
Bovenkirk  every  hour  of  the  day,  and  poor  Mynheer 
»9 


290  A   LEGEND   OF   OLD   NEW   YORK. 

Van  Witt  experienced  symptoms  of  neglect,  and  to 
add  to  his  wretchedness  the  ghost  of  St.  Bartholo- 
mew had  been  encountered  by  several  sober  wit- 
nesses. 

But  as  the  proverbial  worm  turns  at  last,  so  did 
Mynheer,  and  he  went  in  search  of  Juflfrouw  van 
Twist.  He  found  her  stirring  batter  in  the  pantry. 
From  the  solitary  window  there  was  a  delicious  view 
of  the  canal,  the  windmill,  and  the  pagoda ;  this  and 
the  prospect  of  waffles  moved  Mynheer  unspeakably. 

"Juflfrouw  van  Twist! " 

The  fair  Pamplona  paused  with  uplifted  ladle. 

"  Juffrouw  van  Twist,  what  have  we  done  that  you 
wish  to  leave  us?  What  is  there  so  captivating  in  that 
young  man,  Pamplona?" 

"  He  is  a  very  pleasing  youth,  Mynheer." 

Mynheer  spoke  with  solemn  politeness. 

"  Juflfrouw,  do  not  be  offended,  but  how  shall  I  put 
it  to  you  ?  Shall  I  say  he  is  too  young  for  you,  or  that 
you  are  too — ahem  ! — mature  for  him  ?  " 

"  It  comes  to  the  same  thing.  Mynheer." 

"  Then  why  do  you  marry  him  ?  " 

"  Because — because  it  is  high  time  for  me  to  settle. 
It  may  be  my  last  chance,  and  the  young  man  is  will- 
ing.    He  likes  me.  Mynheer." 

"  So  do  others,  Juflfrouw  van  Twist,"  and  Mynheer 
took  the  ladle  out  of  her  hand.  "  So  do  others,  Juf- 
frouw van  Twist,     I  like  you — marry  me  !  " 

"  O  Mynheer  !  why  didn't  you  speak  before  ?  " 

"  Send  him  away,  Pampy ;  send  the  youth  away." 

"  And  break  his  heart.  No,  1  couldn't " — here  she 
refliected — "  unless — " 

"Unless  what?" 

"  Unless  some  one  else  could  be  found  to  take  my 
place." 

"We'll  find  some  one,"  Mynheer  cried  with  enthu- 
siasm j  and  not  only  seized  the  fair  hand  of  Mistress 


A  LEGEND  OF  OLD   NEW   YORK.  29 1 

van  Twist,  but  he  was  about  to  embrace  her  waist 
with  one  arm  when  the  pantry  door  burst  open  and 
in  flew  Brammatje.  "  The  English  !  "  he  roared,  and 
vanished  ;  and  Mj'nheer  followed. 

This  time  it  was  true.  That  very  morning  on  awak- 
ening. New  Amsterdam  was  appalled  by  the  spectacle 
of  six  English  men-of-war  anchored  in  the  quiet  bay, 
their  guns  pointed  directly  at  The  Blue  Grape  ;  and  in 
the  course  of  the  day  the  English  commander-in-chief, 
Colonel  Matthew  Borden,  politely  demanded  of  Gov- 
ernor Stuyvesant  the  surrender  of  the  Dutch  colonies 
in  the  name  of  his  gracious  Majesty  Charles  II.  As 
further  inducement,  Colonel  Borden  added  that  if  he 
refused  it  would  be  his  painful  duty  to  blow  New 
Amsterdam  into  mince-meat.  Whereupon  the  good 
burghers  clamored  enthusiastically  to  be  surrendered. 
But  old  Peter  Stuyvesant  declined  ;  he  and  that  other 
patriot,  Cornells  Van  Witt,  he  declared  to  the  deputa- 
tion, would  teach  their  fellow-citizens  to  be  patriotic. 


VI. 

MYNHEER  overtook  Brammatje.  "  The  English 
will  rob  and  ruin  me,"  he  groaned. 

"  Of  course  they  will,  for  he'll  set  'em  on." 

"  He — who  ?  "  Mynheer  gasped. 

"  That  long-legged  British  spy.  He  ain't  been  spy- 
ing round  here  for  nothing.  With  six  ships  down 
there  to  back  him,  he's  only  to  say,  '  Fork  out,  Corne- 
lls Van  Witt,  or  I'll—  '  " 

"  O  Lord,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  Make  him  harmless." 

"  But  how,  my  dear,  excellent  friend  ?  " 

"  When  he  comes  lure  him  into  the  garret,  that's 
safest ;  lock  him  in  and  make  terms  with  him  through 


292  A   LEGEND   OF   OLD   NEW   YORK. 

the  keyhole.  If  he  won't — "  the  rest  Brammatje  con- 
fided to  Mynheer  in  a  blood-curdling  whisper. 

"  So,  young  man,  you  will  spy  on  me,  will  you  ? " 
he  reflected  with  natural  resentment.  "  Well,  two 
can  play  at  that  game.  I'll  be  blessed  if  I  want  to 
see  your  long  legs  round  by  the  churchyard  at  night 
any  more.  Grudge  a  poor  man  a  trifle  of  luck,  do 
you  ?  " 

Late  that  afternoon  Captain  Cawardine  appeared  ; 
he  looked  preoccupied.  "  I  have  something  to  say 
to  you,  Mynheer." 

Mynheer  grasped  the  arms  of  his  chair.  Did  this 
British  spy  mean  to  murder  him  or  take  him  prisoner  ? 

"  Mynheer,  I  want  to  warn  you  against  Brammatje 
Baas.  I  have  seen  him  in  Boston ;  he  is  an  escaped 
convict." 

Mynheer's  muscles  relaxed  ;  he  received  this  in- 
formation with  admirable  composure. 

"  I  have  no  proof,  Mynheer,  only  suspicions ;  but 
I  am  inclined  to  think  he  is  planning  a  burglary." 

"  Indeed,  where  ?  " 

"  The  old  church  over  the  way." 

"  Well,  then,  young  sir,  why  don't  you  stop  him  ?  " 
Mynheer  retorted  with  unrepressed  scorn. 

"  I  can,  if  you  will  let  me  lodge  in  your  house  to- 
night." 

Mynheer  Van  Witt  himself  conducted  his  guest  to 
his  room. 

"  Bolt  yourself  in,  young  man,  and  God  rest  you," 
he  said  piously,  and  when  after  two  hours  sleep  Cap- 
tain Cawardine  tried  the  door  he  found  that  he  was 
locked  in,  for  what  reason  he  did  not  stop  to  consider. 
Given  a  garret  window,  Juifrouw  van  Twist's  home- 
spun sheets,  the  roof  of  a  broad  veranda  below,  the 
rest  was  a  trifle  for  Tom  Cawardine.  He  dropped 
like  a  cat,  still  holding  one  of  Jufirouw  Pampy's  sheets 
in  his  hand. 


A  LEGEND  OF  OLD  NEW  YORK.    293 

"  Now  for  a  little  fun,"  he  thought  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye  ;  and  flinging  the  sheet  about  his  shoulders 
he  grasped  the  ledge  of  the  veranda  and  swung  him- 
self into  the  midst  of  the  famous  Van  Witt  dahlias. 

The  bell  of  St.  Bartholomew  struck  midnight.  The 
pine  trees  cast  black  shadows  across  the  old  cemetery, 
and  the  weather-beaten  headstones  lay  deep  in  the 
unmown  grass.  It  required  courage  even  in  a  ghost 
to  break  such  profound  silence.  Yet  the  vibration  of 
the  bell  had  hardly  ceased  when  something  white, 
tall,  and  shadowy  appeared  against  the  darkness  of 
the  old  church,  crept  along  with  flowing  garments,  its 
face  hidden,  but  bearing  in  its  hands  a  heavy  burden  ; 
progress  was  slow  over  the  long  grass.  Suddenly 
through  the  silence  there  rang  a  cry  of  abject  terror. 
The  moment  was  unique  in  supernatural  history :  the 
ghost  itself  was  haunted  ;  for  before  it,  under  the 
shadow  of  a  pine  tree,  stood  another  apparition  for  all 
the  world  like  itself. 

"  I  have  been  waiting  for  you,"  an  unearthly, voice 
spoke ;  and  at  the  words  the  first  ghost  dropped  its 
burden  and  fell  on  its  knees  and  shrieked. 

"  How  dare  you  mock  me,  you  wretch  ?  "  the  other 
demanded,  and  pointed  to  the  flowing  draperies. 

"  Forgive — forgive,"  the  miserable  mummer  gasped. 

"  Brammatje  Baas,  you've  been  robbing  the  church. 
The  communion  service  is  in  that  chest." 

"  Ow-ow-ow  !  "  and  Brammatje  bowed  his  rascally 
head  in  terror  to  the  ground  and  made  a  discovery ; 
the  ghost  wore  spurs,  and  who  ever  heard  of  a  mad 
sexton  with  spurs ! 

"  The  devil !  "  and  he  would  have  run,  only  his  head 
came  in  smart  contact  with  the  muzzle  of  a  pistol. 

"  I'd  rather  not  blow  your  brains  out,"  said  Captain 
Cawardine,  with  a  firm  grip  of  Brammatje's  collar, 
"  never  mind  your  plunder,  I'll  see  to  it." 

Whereupon  he  trundled  Brammatje  to  the  damp 


294  A   LEGEND   OF  OLD   NEW   YORK. 

sacristy,  dumped  him  in,  locked  the  heavy  door  with 
Brammatje's  own  false  key,  and  left  that  valorous  soul 
to  the  companionship  of  the  dominie's  surplice  and 
his  own  wrecked  hopes. 

Who  will  describe  the  condition  of  Mynheer  Van 
Witt  on  discovering  the  captain's  flight  ?  He  was  now 
at  the  mercy  of  an  implacable  enemy.  To  add  to  his 
terror,  rumor  declared  that  New  Amsterdam  would  be 
bombarded  if  the  governor  and  Cornells  Van  Witt 
did  not  surrender.  Threats  were  uttered  as  to  what 
would  be  done  to  Cornells  Van  Witt  if  he  insisted  on 
being  too  heroic.  Three  times  that  day  was  he  vainly 
summoned  to  attend  the  town  council.  Venture  in 
range  of  the  British  guns  and  Captain  Cawardine — 
never  I 

There  being  nothing  else  to  do,  a  deputation  of  the 
worthy  aldermen  waited  on  Mynheer  to  remonstrate 
with  him  on  his  warlike  folly. 

"What  is  the  use  of  being  so  heroic,  Cornells  Van 
Witt  ?"  they  asked.  Mynheer  shuddered.  With  less 
trouble  than  they  expected  the  deputation  proved  to 
Mynheer  that  it  makes  no  difference  whether  you  live 
under  a  Dutch  or  an  English  flag,  if  you  have  five 
meals  a  day. 

So  the  common  sense  of  New  Amsterdam  tri- 
umphed ;  Governor  Stuyvesant  gave  way  in  a  huff, 
and  the  British  troops  under  Colonel  Borden  took 
possession  of  the  town.  The  only  apparent  result  of 
this  bloodless  victory  was  that  in  honor  of  his  Majes- 
ty's brother,  the  Duke  of  York,  New  Amsterdam  re- 
ceived the  now  famous  name  of  New  York. 


A   LEGEND   OF  OLD   NEW   YORK.  295 


VII. 

THE  evening  after  Brammatje's  disappearance  the 
sexton  of  St.  Bartholomew's  thumped  against 
Mynheer's  front  door. 

He  was  all  of  a  quiver. 

"  O  Mynheer,  Mynheer !  a  great  misfortune  has 
happened." 

"  Another  ?  "  Mynheer  spoke  with  stunned  resigna- 
tion. 

"Your  communion  service,  of  which  we  were  so 
proud,  is — is — stolen  !  " 

••  Stolen  ! " 

"  Yes,  Mynheer.  I  rang  the  six  o'clock  bell  and 
went  to  the  sacristy,  and  just  as  I  turned  the  key  the 
door  flew  open ;  some  one  knocked  me  down,  but  I 
recognized  the  rogue  :  it  was  Brammatje.  I  flew  to 
the  cupboard  where  the  service  is  kept ;  the  lock  was 
broken  and  the  silver  chest  gone." 

Mynheer  was  left  to  his  reflections,  and  they  were 
not  comforting.  By  the  advice  of  a  rascal,  he  had 
locked  a  blameless  gentleman  into  his  attic,  leaving 
him  no  choice  but  to  jump  out  of  a  garret  window  at 
the  risk  of  breaking  his  neck.  This  same  maligned 
gentleman  was  an  English  officer,  who  could  make  it 
very  unpleasant  for  him  in  these  days  of  British  inva- 
sion. The  communion  service,  which  cost  a  small 
fortune,  had  disappeared.  Juffrouw  van  Twist  had 
been  deprived  of  a  bridegroom  who  was  not  yet  defi- 
nitely replaced,  and  Wimpje  went  about  in  tears.  To 
add  to  his  anguish  the  very  next  morning  there  ap- 
peared a  musketeer  on  a  brawny  mare,  with  a  com- 
mand from  Colonel  Borden  that  Cornells  Van  Witt 
should  appear  before  him  forthwith  in  the  Town  Hall 
of  New  York. 


296  A  LEGEND   OF  OLD   NEW  YORK. 

In  this  same  town-hall,  in  Governor  Stuyvesant's 
own  chair,  sat  Colonel  Borden,  writing  a  letter  and 
cursing  liberally,  for  Colonel  Borden  was  not  as  handy 
at  a  goose-quill  as  at  a  good  stout  sword. 

"Confound  it!     Where's  Tom?     Here  you,  Ca-; 
wardine  ! " 

But  no  Captain  Tom  appeared.  The  colonel  pulled 
a  watch  like  a  warming-pan  out  of  his  breeches  pocket. 

"  Time  for  Tom's  old  man.  So  I'm  to  frighten  the 
old  chap  a  bit  and  make  him  mellow  afterwards.  Well, 
I'm  willing." 

Just  then  there  was  an  awful  scuffle  at  the  outer 
door ;  it  burst  open,  and  in  flew  something  ponder- 
ous followed  by  a  musketeer. 

"  I've  brought  him,  your  Excellency.  This  is  Cor- 
nells Van  Witt." 

There  was  an  awful  pause,  then  Colonel  Borden 
spoke. 

"  So  you're  the  man  who  defied  the  British  nation 
and  refused  to  surrender  these  colonies  to  my  gra- 
cious lord  and  master,  Charles  the  Second,  King  of 
England ! " 

Mynheer  stared  at  the  colonel  in  silent  horror. 
Why  was  he  obliged  to  shoulder  the  entire  heroism 
of  New  Amsterdam  ? 

"  The  British  nation  " — here  the  colonel  frowned 
majestically — "  is  not  to  be  trifled  with." 

Mynheer  grew  so  limp  that  he  clutched  at  the  near- 
est chair  for  support ;  it  was  the  very  chair  in  which 
he  had  once  fallen  asleep  and  awakened  an  unwilling 
hero. 

Mynheer,  your  conduct  has  been  such  that  you 
have  aroused  the — aw  —  the  suspicion  and  resent- 
ment of  the  English  government." 

"  Cornells  wrung  his  fat  hands.  "  I'm  only  a  peace- 
ful citizen,  your  Excellency ;  and  I — I — yes,  I  love 
and  respect  the  English  nation." 


A   LEGEND   OF  OLD   NEW   YORK.  297 

"  Then  why,  Mynheer,"  Colonel  Borden  demand* 
ed,  with  singular  abruptness — "  then  why  did  you  lock 
a  beloved  and  respected  Englishman  into  your  garret  ? 
A  nice  way  to  treat  a  guest,  by  Jupiter !  " 

Mynheer  sank  on  his  knees. 

"  Pardon,  your  Excellency !  I  thought — I  thought 
the  young  man  was  a  British  spy." 

So,  then,  it  was  out.  "  A  British  spy !  "  the  colonel 
roared.  "Tom  Cawardine,  the  son  of  my  old  friend 
General  Cawardine,  a  British  spy !  I  say,  Tom,  d'ye 
hear  ?  "  For  Tom  had  come  into  the  room,  none  the 
worse  for  the  tumble  into  Mynheer's  dahlias. 

Tom  helped  Mynheer  to  his  feet  and  dusted  him 
tenderly.     "  Why  did  you  suspect  me,  Mynheer  ?  " 

Cornells  was  silent,  and  then  he  stammered,  "  Bram- 
matje  Baas." 

"  Against  whom  I  warned  you.  Mynheer,  why  do 
you  believe  the  word  of  a  ruffian  instead  of  that  of  a 
gentleman  ? " 

"  Young  sir,  why  does  a  gentleman  jump  out  of  a 
window  at  midnight  ?  " 

"  Mynheer,  since  when  does  the  host  lock  his  guest 
into  his  room  ?  But,  pardon  me,  I  owe  you  an  ex- 
planation." 

With  these  words  Captain  Cawardine  pulled  from 
under  the  table  a  huge  box  with  a  broken  padlock. 
He  flung  the  iron-bound  lid  back,  and  there,  in  all 
its  glory,  lay  the  communion  service  of  St.  Bartholo- 
mew's. 

"  This,"  the  captain  said  modestly," is  my  explana- 
tion. If  I  had  not  jumped  out  of  the  window  I  could 
not  have  restored  the  treasure  of  St.  Bartholomew  to 
its  generous  donor." 

Mynheer  beamed  with  joy,  and  he  grasped  both  of 
Tom's  hands. 

"  I  have  done  you  a  great  wrong.  Captain  Cawar« 
dine.     Forgive  me." 


298  A   LEGEND   OF   OLD   NEW   YORK. 

Tom  smiled.  "Tell  me,  Mynheer,  why  do  you  dis- 
like me  ? " 

Mynheer  changed  color,  cleared  his  throat,  and 
then  he  blurted  out,  "  Why  did  you  come  courting 
Juflfrouw  van  Twist,  sir  ?  What  do  you,  a  young  and 
handsome  man,  want  with  a  woman  old  enough  to  be 
your  mother  ? "  he  urged.  "  The  fact  is,  I  have  been 
meaning  to  marry  the  lady  myself  one  of  these  days." 

"  Zounds,  Tom  !  If  Mynheer  is  very  anxious  you 
might  be  induced  to  relinquish  the  older  fair  for  one 
younger,"  Colonel  Borden  interposed,  jovially.  "^  So 
it  seems  the  lady  is  a  trifle  mature  for  the  boy,  eh  ? 
But  if  you  take  her  and  leave  our  young  friend  with  an 
aching  heart,  sure  it  will  be  your  duty  to  supply  her 
place." 

Mynheer  looked  dazed. 

Colonel  Borden  continued,  with  some  emphasis  : 

"  It  will  be  well  for  Cornelis  Van  Witt  to  be  on 
good  terms  with  the  new  government.  As  a  Dutch- 
man who  obstinately  refused  to  surrender  you  may  be 
heroic,  mvgood  sir,  but  you  will  certainly  be — unpop- 
ular." 

Mynheer  changed  color  and  cursed  his  own  heroism. 

"  If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  can  ally  yourself  with 
a  good  English  family  of  undoubted  loyalty,  that  will 
be  a  guarantee  for  your  future  patriotism.  You  un- 
derstand. Mynheer?" 

But  Mynheer  was  all  at  sea. 

"  Listen,"  the  colonel  continued.  "  Here's  a  boy 
I  love  as  my  own,"  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  Cawar- 
dine's  arm.  "  His  people  are  the  stanchest  of  good 
English  folks,  well  to  do  and  honorable.  You,  Myn- 
heer, are  wealthy ;  you  have  a  daughter — " 

"Yes,  Wilhelmina ;  a  little  maid  with  yellow  hair 
and  brown  eyes,"  Mynheer  murmured,  absently. 

"  Perhaps  you  can  persuade  him  to  take  the  younger 


A   LEGEND   OF  OLD   NEW   YORK.  299 

maid  for  the  older.  What  do  you  say,  Tom,  old 
fellow  ? " 

Captain  Cawardine  watched  Mynheer  with  breath- 
less eagerness.  Mynheer's  perplexity  was  something 
painful.  "This  is  so  very  sudden — so — so  unexpect- 
ed," he  stammered. 

"  Sir,"  the  colonel  interposed,  "  do  not  forget  my 
warning.  I  speak  to  you  not  as  a  prisoner  of  war,  as 
I  might,  but  as  a  friend." 

"  I — I — thank  your  Excellency, — I — I  am  deeply 
beholden  to  you, — but — you  see,  gentlemen,  I  must 
first  speak  to  Wimpje — my  little  daughter.  It  will  be 
for  her  to  decide." 

"  Tell  her  to  sacrifice  herself  for  your  sake,  Myn- 
heer, do  you  hear  ?  And,  I  say,  take  Captain  Tom 
with  you.  I  don't  trust  you — you  are  a  desperate  char- 
acter. You  are  the  hero  of  New  York  these  days, 
Mynheer.     God  be  with  you,  gentlemen." 


VIII. 

MYNHEER  rode  beside  the  captain  and  pon- 
dered, and  every  moment  he  inclined  more 
and  more  to  the  colonel's  plan.  As  for  its  being 
an  English  government — mere  prejudice ;  what  had 
the  Dutch  government  ever  done  for  him  ? 

Mynheer  broke  the  silence.  "  It  all  depends  on 
Wimpje,  and  whether  her  heart  inclines  to  you.  She's 
desperate  woful  since  two  days,  and  such  matters  as 
courting  may  come  amiss.  Such  weeping  and  hang- 
ing round  my  neck  when  I  left — why,  blicksem  !  there 
they  are  running  down  the  road  to  meet  me.  Why, 
Wimpje,  child,  and  Juffrouw  van  Twist,  here  am  I 
safe  back  ;"  and  he  held  out  a  fat  hand  to  each,  while 
Powlje  stood  still  and  took  a  nibble  of  grass.  "  But 
there,  child,  don't  you  see  the  captain  ?  " 


300  A   LEGEND   OF   OLD   NEW   YORK. 

Captain  Cawardine  swung  himself  out  of  his  sad- 
dle, and  with  the  horse's  bridle  over  his  arm  he  walked 
beside  young  Wimpje  Van  Witt. 

'*  Juffrouw  Van  Witt,"  the  captain  said,  softly, 
"  have  you  missed  me } " 

There  was  no  answer,  only  a  sudden  little  sob. 
"Why,  Wimpje,  my  darling,  so  much  ?  " 

She  turned  upon  him  with  a  quiver  of  her  pretty 
lips.  "  I  must  tell  father.  I  can  bear  it  no  longer. 
To  think  that  you  are  an  Englishman,  and  that  of  all 
the  world  he  should  just  hate  Englishmen.  I  fear  he 
will  never  pardon  our  deception." 

"  My  darling,  it  will  all  end  well,  believe  me.  Per- 
haps it  was  a  foolish  plan,  but  how  else  could  I  have 
had  my  sweetheart  ?  All's  fair  in  love  and  war,  and 
it  was  kind  of  Juffrouw  Pampy  to  let  me  come  court- 
ing her  for  the  joy  of  seeing  you.  It  was  for  the  best, 
Wimpje,  dear.  Captain  Cawardine  was  an  unwelcome 
suitor  for  the  hand  of  Juffrouw  Van  Witt," 

"  Oh,  if  my  father  will  only  forgive  me  for  loving 
you !  If  he  does  not — why  then  I'll  follow  you  to 
the  end  of  the  earth,  for  I  cannot  live  without  you. 
I'll  go  as  far  then  as  ever  you  wish — even  if  it  is  to 
Boston." 

IX. 

A  PEACEFUL  late-afternoon  quiet  rested  over  the 
living-room,  and  the  holy  saint  was  fading  into 
twilight. 

Two  sighs  broke  the  stillness. 

"  Why,  Wimpje  ?  " 

"  Why,  father  ?  " 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,  Wimpje." 

Wimpje  brought  the  settle  to  the  sacred  chair,  and 
rubbed  her  soft  cheeks  against  Mynheer's  hand. 

"  How  old  are  you,  Wimpje  .''  " 


A   LEGEND   OF  OLD  NEW   YORK.  30' 

"  Eighteen,  father." 

"Now,  Wimpje,  did  it — did  it  ever  occur  to  you 
that  young  girls  do  sometimes  marry  ?  " 

Wimpje  sighed. 

A  sudden  thought  struck  Mynheer.  You  are  not 
opposed  to  marrying  ?  Young  maids  have  such  fool- 
ish notions  sometimes." 

The  answer  was  inaudible  and  yet  satisfactory. 
Mynheer  proceeded. 

"  Wimpje  child,  there  now,  tell  your  old  father,  is 
your  heart  quite  free  ?  " 

Here,  to  Mynheer's  speechless  consternation,  she 
hid  her  face  on  his  arm  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  And  just  as  I  had  a  nice 
little  plan." 

"  A  plan  ?  "  Juffrouw  Van  Witt  murmured,  sobbing. 

"  Well,  child,  you  must  be  told.  Here  is  Pamplona 
— you  always  liked  Pamplona,  and  some  day  I  meant 
to  marry  her ;  but  there  was  no  hurry,  and  all  would 
have  gone  well,  but  just  then  there  comes  Captain 
Cawardine  courting  my  Pamplona.  And  she  took 
him,  but  only  because  I — I  had  not  spoken." 

Mynheer  was  unspeakably  elated.  "The  fact  is, 
child,  not  to  hide  anything  from  you,  the  decided  stand 
I  took  in  the  matter  of  the  siege  of  New  Amsterdam 
(there  be  those  who  call  it  heroic)  has  been  miscon- 
strued. The  English  Government  doubts  my  patri- 
otism ;  the  English  Government  requires  a  guaranty 
for  my — ahem  ! — loyalty. 

"  Now,  Wimpje,  tell  me,  what  do  you  think  of  Cap- 
tain Cawardine  ? " 

Wimpje  controlled  a  sudden  sparkle  in  her  brown 
eyes,  and  hung  her  head  discreetly.  "  He  seems  a 
worthy  young  man." 

"  He  is  more  than  that."  Mynheer  spoke  with 
sudden  impatience.  '*  He  is  a  young  man  of  taste 
and  discretion,  or  he  would  not  have  courted  Juffrouw 


302  A   LEGEND   OF   OLD   NEW   YORK. 

van  Twist.  That  wound  will  heal.  He  is,  besides, 
of  excellent  family  and  well  to  do,  and  he  is  as  a  son 
to  Colonel  Borden.  Being  so  well  with  the  govern- 
ment, young  and  sturdj',  and  pleasant  to  gaze  upon,  I 
thought — yes,  I  thought — " 

"Well,  father?" 

"  I  thought,  Wimpje,  you  might  n't  do  much  bet- 
ter, and  you  could  do  a  great  deal  worse." 

"  But  he  is  an  Englishman,  father." 

"  A  mere  prejudice,  child.  Through  Captain  Caw- 
ardine  your  old  father  could  get  many  a  good  trading 
privilege.  There,  listen  to  me,  Wimpje,  do  not  sacri- 
fice your  father  for  a  foolish  fancy." 

"  So  it  would  please  you  if  I  married  Captain  Caw- 
ardine  ?  "  young  Wimpje  said  meekly. 

"  It  would,  child." 

"  Very  well,  then  for  your  sake,  you  dear — "  and 
before  he  could  remonstrate  Wimpje's  arms  were 
flung  about  his  neck. 

"  I  am  so  happy,  so  happy,  I  " 

"Why?"  Mynheer  cried,  struggling. 

"  Now  you  will  have  to  forgive.    Wait,  I'll  call  him." 

And  Captain  Cawardine  came,  smiling  and  eager. 

"O  Tom,  I've  promised  to  marry  you,"  and  before 
Mynheer  could  say  a  word,  she  was  in  his  arms. 

"  This  is  very  extraordinary.  Captain  ;  will  you  ex- 
plain, Wilhelmina?  I  thought,  Juffrouw,  you  said 
your  heart  was  not  free." 

"It  wasn't,  for  there  was  Captain  Cawardine." 

"  But  there  was  also  Juffrouw  van  Twist.  Blicksem  ! 
Whom  did  you  come  courting,  Captain  Cawardine  ?  " 

But  Wimpje  was  already  at  his  side  stroking  his 
fat  cheek.  "  It  was  me  he  came  courting,  but  it  was 
all  Pamplona's  little  plan,  so  you  will  have  to  forgive." 

Of  course  Mynheer  forgave,  and  before  winter  set 
in  there  were  two  fine  weddings  at  Bovenkirk. 

In  the  course  of  time  Cornells  Van  Witt's  increas- 


A   LEGEND   OF  OLD   NEW   YORK.  3^3 

ing  wealth  proved  on  what  excellent  terms  he  was 
with  the  government,  while  the  wisdom  and  patriotism 
of  Governor  Cawardine  of  New  York  have  passed 
into  history. 

As  for  the  ghost  of  the  mad  sexton,  it  disappeared 
with  Brammatje  Baas. 

Whoever  doubts  the  truth  of  this  narrative,  let  him 
take  the  elevated  road  in  the  great  city  of  New  York 
and  search  for  the  old  church  of  St.  Bartholomew 
not  far  from  the  Bowery.  There  will  he  find  an  an- 
cient graveyard  surrounded  by  time-stained  ware- 
houses. He  will  observe  that  the  crumbling  head- 
stones still  stand  in  straight  rows  as  placed  by  the 
mad  sexton.  If  he  searches  very  carefully  he  will 
discover  on  one  weather-beaten  slab,  beneath  a  soli- 
tary willow  tree  the  years  have  spared,  this  half- 
obliterated  inscription  : 

CORNELIS  VAN  WITT, 

DIED  AT  THE  GREAT  AGE  OF  90 

IN  THE  TOWN  OF  NEW  YORK. 

1695. 

REQUIESCAT  IN  PACE. 


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